


Rituals of Sacrifice

by clarityhiding



Series: Living Our Best Deaths [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), DCU (Comics), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Case Fic, Dark Magic, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Infanticide, Jason Todd is Robin, JayTimBINGO2019, M/M, Miscarriage, Murder, Necromancy, Ouija, Possession, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarityhiding/pseuds/clarityhiding
Summary: All Tim's friends are dead. That's okay—he is too.PLEASEpay attention to the warnings/tags as this story deals with distressing and mature themes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Lonely Place for Living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317048) by [clarityhiding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarityhiding/pseuds/clarityhiding). 



> **IMPORTANT!** This is murder mystery of sorts that deals with the ritual murder of babies and children, as well as what's effectively purposeful abortion for the sake of black magic. While nothing is outright graphic in description or detail, the concepts discussed are quite heavy and require a degree of maturity from the reader. I won't be including trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter, so if infanticide/child homicide is something you have a problem with, I recommend you skip this story and check out my other works instead.
> 
> Thanks to chibi_nightowl and Nykyrianne for betaing, and spazzterror for being so kind as to check it over and let me know it definitely made some semblance of sense. Also thanks to the Capes & Coffee Discord for tolerating my rambling on about dead babies for a month. Oops.
> 
> Written for Week 3: Supernatural of JayTim Month(ish)! This started as a sort of what-if alternate take on my one shot A Lonely Place for Living and snowballed like crazy.

He's been back on the job for all of a month when the signal lights up the sky, summoning them to the roof of GCPD Central. Gordon blinks several times when he sees Batman's small shadow, and his eyes look suspiciously wet behind his glasses. If Robin didn't already long-suspect him of knowing exactly who's behind the masks of Gotham's preeminent vigilantes, this would be blatant confirmation.

"Commissioner," Batman says, a growl more than a greeting, but that's still an improvement from the half-broken man that was running around on fumes when Robin first came back.

"There's been a murder, over on the Upper West Side. A bit different from what we usually deal with, and I know you have some resources at your disposal that aren't available to us. Connections. I'd appreciate any input you can give." Gordon takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes.

Batman readies his grapple and Robin does the same, but then the boss… hesitates. "Is something the matter?"

"I didn't want to call you in on this one, not with everything that. Well." Gordon put his glasses back on and glances at Robin. "The victim is… young."

"Understood. We'll do whatever we can to help," Batman says, and it sends a thrill through Robin to hear that _'we.'_ "Get some rest, Jim." He shoots off his line and disappears into the night.

"Commissioner," Robin says, about to follow when Gordon starts forward.

"Robin—you're the same one as before, right? Before he went all—he didn't get some new kid?"

Robin smiles, crooked and cock-sure. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Right, right. Just… be careful, y'hear? And keep an eye on him? He doesn't do so well with dead kids, these days."

"Of course," Robin says, and then he's off, swinging into the darkness with a splash of yellow and a peel of laughter.

* * *

Batman's already at the house when Robin arrives, sneaking in behind the yellow tape and posted guards. He isn't nearly as sneaky as B—he stumbles a little, coming in through the window, and one of the detectives still lingering at the scene helps him to his feet. "Thanks."

"Your boss is already down in the basement, though I don't think we're supposed to know that," the detective says. She gives him a sad smile and ruffles his hair. Normally, he wouldn't allow that kind of familiarity, but sometimes Robin has to put up with unpleasant things in order to put people at ease. "Not sure if you want to go down there, kid. It's pretty gruesome."

Robin has seen some of the most gruesome things imaginable, things that this woman can't possibly even wrap her head around, things not even _Batman_ can wrap his head around. "I'll be fine," he says, and slips out of her grasp to head down the stairs.

There's a circle carved into the cement, the guttered, waxen remains of candles stuck fast at evenly spaced intervals around the outside of it. Batman is standing at the edge of a large, still-wet puddle of red, a too-small body lying in the center of it. Robin's eyes skip over the body and the blood. There are things he can't look at, these days, things his mind just can't handle. Not if he wants to stay sane. Instead, he sets out to do what Robin does best, following the soft sound of scared, panicked breathing accompanied by muffled crying.

"Hey," he says, crouching down beside a half-closed cupboard, pushing the door open the rest of the way. "It's okay to come out now. The good guys have arrived."

"You're Robin," a small voice says, still a little choked, but so full of wonder that Robin can't help but puff up his chest with pride.

"That's right. And Batman's here too, but you don't have to be scared of him, he's really just a big teddy bear—though you shouldn't tell him I said that." He scoots out of the way and a boy crawls out, only a little smaller than he is, which is distressing. Robin knows he's on the small side for his age, and this kid doesn't look more than two or three years younger than him. This is a nice house, and the kid is wearing decent clothes. He shouldn't be so small. "How about you and me just hang out here while Batman does his thing. Did you see who hurt your friend?"

"It's not—"

"Robin? Who are you talking to?" There are footsteps behind him, but he knows that's just because Batman doesn't want to scare anyone by being too sneaky. "What are you doing over here in the corner all by yourself?"

"Wow, boss, way to be rude to—what's your name, kid?"

"Oh, he can't see me," the boy says, straightening out of his crouch to gaze straight up at Batman, who seems to look right through him. "He's never died, you see, so he can't see beyond the veil. As for my name, it's Tim, Tim Drake. That's me over there," he gestures to small body on the floor, then glances back. "I'm so glad you're okay, Robin. Would you like to know who killed me?"

* * *

"It was my mother," Tim says, wandering over to look down at his body. "She wanted to bring back my father, but I messed up the ritual, so it didn't work." It had been too late to escape, to save himself, so he high-jacked it before she could tether his lifeforce to his father's body. And then, while she'd been busy panicking and trying to figure out what had gone wrong, he had turned on the waiting soul of his father and spoken the exorcism spell that could only be performed from this side, the one that would shut Jack Drake out from the world of the living for all eternity.

Robin is following behind him, having waved off Batman's inquiries. Tim hopes this doesn't present a problem for him, doesn't make things awkward between them. He never considered that they might investigate his death, had figured they would instead want to spend this time together, being a family. Batman was very upset over Robin's death, even Tim had seen that.

"How could she do that, your own mother? You're her _kid_ ," Robin says, sounding aghast and appalled at the very idea. "She _raised_ you."

"Oh, but she didn't? I mean, my parents weren't around much when I was little, it was mostly nannies or housekeepers. I used to assume it was because they were so busy with business, but I think mostly I didn't want to see what was right in front of me until it was too late. And then, when I got older, there was a different boarding school each year. I don't think they really _intended_ to kill me from the start, but it was definitely kept in reserve as an option, should the worst happen." It's all very clear now, in hindsight. Looking back at how Jack and Janet Drake went out of their way to keep themselves from becoming too emotionally invested in Tim.

"An _option_?"

"Robin, I'm getting concerned," Batman says. "I know this is a very upsetting scene. Perhaps you should call it a night and—"

"I can't, Tim's telling me about how he died. I _have_ to be here, boss," Robin says, and Tim really hopes that ghosts can't blush, because he can't help the silly smile he gets at hearing that.

"Who?"

"Tim Drake, the dead boy. His ghost is here, he says his mom killed him. He says I can see him because… because I died," Robin says, sounding small and slightly scared.

"I'm sorry. This is a lot for you to take in," Tim says. "It's okay if he doesn't believe you, I don't want him thinking the worst of you just because I can't keep my nose out of things."

"Robin, that's not how ghosts work," Batman says. "I'm going to call someone who knows more about this sort of thing, and they'll be able to tell us what kind of ritual the person or people who did this were trying to perform. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

"Huh, and I suppose he knows all about ghosts! And just how many times has _he_ been one?" Tim demands, sticking his tongue out at Batman. "Look, it's okay if you leave, though you might tell the cops out front to tear up the floor down here once they're done taking photos of everything. They should start with the back corner over there and work their way towards the steps."

"Do I want to know why?" Robin asks, once again ignoring Batman.

"Just. My parents had a lot of… friends. Acquaintances? And they had kids too, kids who I was friends with. All of them moved away over the years as I grew older, only…" Tim glances around the room, shivers as his vision sort of blurs and doubles, as it has been for the past however long he's been down here, waiting. "Only I'm thinking maybe only the parents moved away. And there's a reason why my friends never stayed in touch with me later."

"Jesus _christ_ , kid."

Batman pauses in his attempts to usher his partner out of the room, apparently startled into attention by the tone of his protégé's voice. "What is it? Did he. Did the… ghost tell you something?"

"This isn't just one dead kid, B. I think this entire basement is one huge mass-grave. Tim says all his friends are dead."

"Oh, and possibly my siblings? I don't know. I always thought I was an only child. But there are an awful lot of dead babies under us, and sometimes I didn't see my parents for months on end."

* * *

Despite Robin's reassurances that he's fine, Batman still sends him home. Tim follows him up the stairs, which gives him pause. "Don't you have to stay here?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, I mean. This is where your body is. And where you died. Aren't you, y'know, tied to this spot?"

Tim tilts his head to the side, clearly considering the idea. "No, I don't think so. And why would I want to stay with my _body_? That's just morbid! Besides, it's not like it's even me anymore, and I'd rather help you catch my killer."

"You mean your _mom_." Robin still can't get over the fact that the kid's own mom killed him. It's somehow even worse that Tim doesn't seem to think it’s that weird in the first place.

"Yes. Maybe we could also try and get her friends? They're probably still doing the same things as before, just somewhere else, with new kids." Tim hesitates at the top of the steps, and for a moment Robin wonders if he can't go any further. But then he straightens his spine and ghostly blue eyes meet masked ones. "I should've realized what was happening sooner. I should've tried to stop it. Maybe I could've saved my friends."

"Hey, no," Robin says, pushing the door open for them. He wants to pat Tim's shoulder or give him a hug, but he's pretty sure that won't work with a ghost. "It's not your fault. Adults— _parents_ —are supposed to protect their kids."

"I guess." Tim glances to where the detective is still standing by the front door of the house, talking with an officer in uniform. "Hey, Robin? Could you do me a favor?"

"Like what?"

"The police are going to be combing this place top to bottom, right? D'you think—d'you think you could maybe sneak something out for me? I promise it's not evidence or anything, it's just… personal stuff. My personal stuff, I mean. That I don't want anyone else seeing. It could be embarrassing."

He's really not supposed to take evidence from a crime scene—even _Batman_ gets in trouble with Gordon when he does that. "It's not downstairs in the basement, is it?" he asks in a hushed tone, forcing a smile for the detective when she glances in his direction.

"No, it's in my room! It's… There's a lockbox under my bed, and I'd be really, really grateful if you could just… hold onto it for me." Tim bites his lip, his pale cheeks gaining a little bit of color. "It's very personal. I don't think I could handle anyone else looking inside."

Which is… fair. There's _definitely_ stuff in his own room he doesn't think he could ever stand anyone else seeing. He was never so grateful as when he realized that no one had gone and looked through his things while he was six feet under. "Lead the way," Robin says, though he has to wait until the detective turns away again before bounding up the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time.

* * *

It's really quite fortunate that Robin is here. Robin, who is probably the only person in the entirety of Gotham who can see and hear Tim now. If not, things could have been severely compromised had the GCPD gotten hold of Tim's pictures. He'd meant to destroy them before—before he did anything, but then his mom had come back early, insisting his dad would be following on a later flight. He didn't see the big pine box until it was too late and the basement door was locked.

At least he'd had the totem in his pocket. Otherwise he might never have had a chance to do the right thing.

"Thanks again, Robin," he says, shouting to be heard over the wind as they fly through the city. He hasn't actually tried flying until now, but it's just as easy as all the movies make it out to be. Now that he's dead, at least.

"Why are you still following me?" Robin asks when he pauses on a rooftop to rewind his grapple before shooting it again. "Shouldn't you be with Batman? He's the one working your case. _I'm_ the one who got sent home early."

"Only because of me. And why would I stay with Batman? It's not like he can hear me."

"Well, okay. But you can't just… follow me home. I mean, I have to keep my identity secret. You get that, right?"

Tim laughs, high and gleeful. The wind seems to carry it, but he knows that's not true. Not for anyone other than him and Robin, at least. "I'm dead, no one else can see or hear me—who do you think I'm going to tell?"

"Well, there are bad magic users. I mean, look at your parents and their buddies."

"They can't hear me either. Probably. Most of them never got as far as dying, and I put the kibosh on my dad coming back. Besides, as a dead person, there's a lot of stuff I know now."

"Like what?" Robin eyes him suspiciously, frowning.

"Well, I knew you'd died, didn't I? And I know your name is Jason Todd, and Batman's is Bruce Wayne, and Nightwing's is—"

"Enough!" Robin says, looking very, very pale. "Okay. Okay, so you know that. That's… You shouldn't know that."

"I'm dead. I don't think I exist in quite the same space as the living anymore," Tim admits. "While I was in the basement, waiting for someone to find me, there was… I sometimes saw things. Confusing things. Things that had already happened there, but also things that hadn't happened yet."

"That's… weird."

"Not really. I'm a dead person who hasn't moved on. I don't think there are a lot of rules governing this sort of thing, no matter what some people might have you believe." Glancing over at Robin, at Jason, he hesitates. "Would you rather I stayed in the basement? With Batman? I mean, I can't do anything to help if I stay there, but if I'm making you uncomfortable, I can—"

"No, it's fine! I just. I guess I didn't expect to get my own friendly ghost sidekick."

"Excuse you, I'm no sidekick! I'm—I'm a private contractor. A criminal informant for the other side." He grins, chuckling at his own joke.

"Well, alright. Though if you're going to be helping me with this, it's some pretty active informing, isn't it?" Jason smiles back over his shoulder and Tim has never been so grateful in his very short unlife before that he doesn't _actually_ need his heart anymore since it surely shouldn't be beating that fast.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Well, me and Batman, we're partners. Seems you and me should be the same, shouldn't we?"

"I'd… like that. Being partners with you." It's more than he ever dreamed of having, before. A partnership with _Robin_.

Stopping on a rooftop, Jason winds his grapple and hooks it on his belt, then adjusts Tim's box under his arm so he can hold out his hand. "Partners, then."

Tim reaches out automatically, trying to shake the hand and nearly falling forward when his hand passes right through Jason's. "Oh." He frowns down at his own semi-transparent hand. "I don't think a spit-shake'll work either. Or a pinkie-swear."

"Well, how about this." Jason carefully sets Tim's box down on the roof, then rests his hand on the top, gesturing for Tim to do the same. He can't actually touch the lid, but he's so familiar with its texture after all this time that he can well imagine what it feels like. "I promise on this, Tim's most trusted keepsake, that he and I will be partners and see this through."

"Partners," Tim echoes, staring at Jason's face, his mouth absolutely dry. Though that could be normal, for a ghost.

"There." Jason nods once, decisively, then scoops up the box again. "Now you're stuck with me."

"Guess I am," Tim says, and he can't think of any place he'd rather be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boy detectives work the case.

"So. Jason. I think we should have a talk. About last night," Bruce says at the brunch table the next day. "I know we said you could cut down on the appointments with Dr. Toby after the first couple of months, but maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all."

"I'm not crazy," Jason says, jabbing his fork into his eggs and glaring fiercely at Bruce. "I saw what I saw and I'm not making it up. Did you tell the police to look under the basement floor?"

"I'm not sure if—"

"Would it help if I told you that Janet Drake has been to the hospital eight times in the past four years for miscarriages? That there's proof in her medical file that she's definitely given birth more than once in her lifetime?"

"Jason, that's confidential information. I don't know how you found it out, but you can't be digging into people's medical records like that. It's against the law," Bruce says, like he doesn't do the same thing all the time.

"So is dressing up in your fursona every night so you can punch people in the face, but I don't see _you_ stopping. And anyway, _I_ didn't go digging, my C.I. did."

"Your… C.I. Since when do you have criminal informants?"

"Since last night, and it's just one. Though, technically, we're partners now." He nods at Tim, who beams at him from the seemingly empty chair beside him. Jason made sure to pull it out a little before he sat down, so Tim doesn't even have to be halfway into the table.

Bruce glances at the chair, frowning. "Am I to understand the ghost of Timothy Drake is here now?"

"He goes by Tim, and yeah, of course. You don't think he'd want to stick around with his body and the bodies of all those dead kids under the floor, do you? That's just gross."

"You allowed a ghost to follow you home."

"I brought my _partner_ home with me so we could work on the project together. What gives, B? You're the one who's always talking about how I need to make more friends and stop being too scared to step outside my comfort zone. Well, I've made a friend and he's even all classy and loaded like you."

"Technically, I'm not. I mean, my parents—well, just my mom now, I guess—she has money, but I don't have anything."

"Quiet, Tim, I'm making a point here."

"Jason, when I said you should try to make friends with your peers, I meant at school, not with dead people!"

"Well, heck. If a dead person's not my peer, then who the fuck is?" Jason demands. Since Bruce just groans, he counts it as a win. "Anyway, me and Tim, we were talking last night, and I think I should be a police psychic."

"A police… psychic. Alright, this I have to hear. Explain."

"Well, you're right that Batman can't take all that stuff about Tim's mom to the cops, 'cause it's illegal to find that kind of crap out without a warrant, and it's a pain to try and explain to the cops why they need a warrant for that kind of thing, especially if they can't be bothered to dig up the floor and find all the dead babies there."

"Fair point. There's no current evidence to point to this being anything more than a one-time occurrence, after all. And since there's no record of Janet Drake reentering the country, it could be argued that some enterprising soul noticed the Drakes' frequent absences and decided to use their property to engage in a bit of devil-summoning. Timothy—Tim was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Necromancy, actually. But what if the GCPD _did_ have a reason to request a warrant? Because a medium is in contact with the victim's ghost and the ghost says they should look into her?"

"And this medium would be… you. You think I'm going to let you go to the GCPD and claim to have psychic powers—powers you've never displayed before—and, what? Let them make a laughing stock out of you?"

"No. I think the commish is going to listen to the son of his close friend because he remembers going to that son's funeral and he knows that things that are dead don't always stay that way," Jason says, his tone soft and pointed as he meets Bruce's hard gaze with a challenging look of his own.

"Jason—"

"You can't just stick your head in the ground and pretend it didn't happen, B. I died, I came back, _everyone_ knows about it. I was legally dead—not for a day, or even a week, but for several months. I was dead, autopsied, embalmed, and buried. Yeah, I came back—but with all the injuries I had when I died, and I had to dig myself out of a grave I'd been in for way too long. All of that's on record, and it has to count for something."

Bruce sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Say you do go to Jim Gordon with this—is that really worth it? To possibly ruin your civilian reputation for the rest of your life for the sake of one dead boy?"

"I think there's a lot of things people will do— _should_ do for the sake of one dead boy," Jason says softly, leaving the angry words he shouted at Bruce months ago to linger between them, unspoken ( _'I'm not saying everyone—just him! Just the Joker! You couldn't—for me?'_ ). "I think Tim's more deserving of them than some kids, considering it doesn't sound like his parents ever did anything for him without first thinking about how it might benefit them."

"Jason…" Tim whispers, leaning over to rest a ghostly hand on his. "You don't have to do this for me. If I'm going to be a ghost, I can probably figure out haunting. Maybe I can haunt my mom and her friends enough that they'll come clean?"

Jason shakes his head and tries, uselessly, to shake off Tim's hand. "And besides, it's not just one boy, one murderer, it's a whole _bunch_ of dead kids. From what Tim's said, his parents were— _are_ —part of an entire coven or circle or whatever of necromancers, all of them having kids, grooming them, and then killing them to get a bit more magical power. If I don't do this—if _we_ don't do this, they're going to keep at it, in some other city, with even more kids. Maybe they'll have more, maybe they'll adopt them. Maybe they'll be like Tim's mom and just keep having more and more 'miscarriages' that no one ever thinks to question, because pregnancy is such a _messy_ business."

Bruce sighs and nods. "You're right, I wasn't thinking. If it's really as many children as you say, with an organization of some size… that needs to be brought to light. And it's going to need some kind of legitimacy that Batman can't give it. I don't know if a psychic teenager is exactly the kind of thing that the GCPD wants to be associated with, but it's not without precedent and you do have an impeccable character."

"Well, I don't know about _that_ ," Jason says, clearing his throat and glancing away. "I mean, I may have _technically_ committed a number of small—"

"I was speaking of your GPA, the various teachers that only ever sing your praises, and your close relationship with the commissioner's own daughter."

"Oh." Jason's cheeks heat slightly as he ducks his head to hide his sheepish grin. "I guess all that could count for something too, huh?"

* * *

Convincing Jason to go to the commissioner with everything Tim has told him works surprisingly well. He's still figuring out this whole ghost thing, but he did practice while he was in the basement, trying to determine his next step. He's not entirely sure how long he was there—Batman and the police seem to think he only just died, since the blood was still a little wet and his body hadn't started to decompose, but he suspects the fact that both blood and body were in a necromantic circle may have something to do with that and it's actually been a bit longer. For one thing, Robin— _Jason_ —seems to have been back for some time and that—that certainly wasn't true when Tim died.

Anyway. He spent a lot of time practicing, and while he's far from an expert at ectoplasmic manipulation, he can ruffle papers and push buttons just enough to get into various records, both paper and electronic.

Batman said there was no record of Janet Drake reentering the country, but Tim does find a record of a Jaqueline Vibora flying into Archie Goodwin International Airport almost five months ago. It's a name he's sure he's read before, and a quick trip back to his parents' house (it's no longer his, wasn't ever really his even back when he was still alive) has him ruffling through books and disturbing the uniformed officer who's still posted at the door.

It's as he suspected. Some of the books in his parents' office were written by a Jaqueline Vibora, though they all have publication dates from nearly seventy years ago. They're also on the topic of the religious practices of various pre-modern societies, with a special focus on death-cults in particular. It could just be a coincidence, or his mother borrowing the name of a scholar she admires, but somehow he doesn't think so.

Being able to move lightning-quick all over the city is amazing, and he zips back to Wayne Manor, eager to share what he's found with Jason. Except the house is empty when he gets there. No Batman, no Jason, not even the old servant who he saw puttering around before. He goes all through the house, from the highest attic to the deepest cavern, and he's supremely confused by the whole thing until he happens to notice a clock. Half-past one in the afternoon. No wonder no one is around, they must all be working, or at school, or out running errands.

Tim hasn't thought about school in a long time. He wonders what his classmates think happened to him. Thought of him, before the news broke that he's dead. Probably nothing—there was never anything particularly distinctive about him, and his whole life he's been discouraged from trying to make friends with his peers, though he never understood why until now. Too many friends would mean too many people asking questions if a kid suddenly and unexpectedly kicked the bucket.

He considers bothering Jason at school, but quickly discards the notion. Jason is still alive (is alive _again_ ), he should have a chance to be a real boy, not stuck entertaining a dead one who couldn't even be bothered to get his act in gear while he was still living. He thinks about watching Batman, or even the detective investigating his death, but quickly discards those ideas as well. It's frustrating enough being limited in what he can touch and interact with; it's sure to be worse when it comes to not being able to _tell_ anyone anything.

What he _should_ be doing is tracking down his mother and her friends. Making sure his father's corpse is well and truly destroyed—he'd thought she left it in the basement, was sure she had, but the pine box wasn't there when the police arrived, and he can't remember seeing it go. But every time he tries to leave the city, he finds himself trapped, unable to go anywhere. He's not sure if he just isn't able to get too far from his place of death or if he's confined to Gotham by mystical means.

At first, he thought the thing holding him back might be the water—Gotham is built on islands, and many supernatural things can't cross running water. He's not sure if the ocean counts as running, but it's certainly moving, so there's that. But then he remembers that he followed Jason to Bristol on the mainland, that he hasn't had any trouble crossing the bridges that connect the various parts of the city together, and he's again left confused and perplexed.

It's not proximity to his body, he doesn't think. Or to where he died. Probably. Actually, when he thinks about it very hard, it occurs to him that the reason he didn't leave the basement after he died was because he couldn't. Days and nights ran together after he disposed of his father's lingering soul, and he started to thin out into nothingness, not even noticing the box with his father's body going missing or the fact that his body remained unchanged in its gruesome puddle.

Clarity and awareness returned when Robin opened the door to his hiding place and called out to him. Which makes sense, considering.

Not that he can ever let Jason know _why_.

In the end, he sits on the front steps of the manor to wait.

"Are you going to wait for them to come back? It'll be a while, you know."

Tim's head jerks up automatically, even though he knows the words aren't for him, since only Jason talks to him anymore. Can talk to him. Cares enough to talk to him.

The woman who spoke has black hair and very pale skin, eyes that glitter and dance. At first he thinks she's probably in her early twenties, but there's something about her that makes him revise that initial assessment, though he can't think of what age to peg her at instead. Most importantly of all, she's looking straight at him.

"Are you… Can you _see_ me?" he asks, more than a little confused. From what he's read in his parents' books, Batman wasn't wrong when he said that normally ghosts don't behave the way Tim does. Normally, anyone sensitive can see them, not just resurrected people.

"Yup. Little surprised I didn't see you sooner, actually," she says, coming over to sit next to him on the steps. "I see everyone, though. Eventually."

He glances over, taking in her young-old appearance and black clothes. The solitary, silver ankh hanging around her neck. This was in his parents' books also. "Oh," he says, small and tiny. "You're here to take me away."

"Well, yes and no. Like I said, I should have seen you a lot sooner, but you're a little slippery, aren't you? Probably to be expected with all the poking and prodding that's been done to your soul. Not surprising it isn't behaving naturally." She smiles and—impossibly—reaches over to pat his hand where it rests on the porch. "Don't worry, though. You're still intact."

"I'm sorry," Tim blurts out. "About my dad. I shouldn't have—I know that wasn't my call to make, you're supposed to take us to wherever we need to go, and I know I should have waited, but I was just—so angry and scared that she might succeed, if not with me than with someone else, and I didn't—I didn't—" He didn't think, just reacted and reached out, speaking the exorcism spell to banish his father even as he tore at the specter, pulling it to shreds.

She just smiles and pats his hand again. "Sometimes I don't need to take people to where they belong. Sometimes they're already there."

"Oh. Am I… already where I need to be, too?" he asks, more than a little hopeful. He knows he should probably move on, shouldn't stay here, lingering around Jason who just needs to get over what happened to him and have as near a normal life as possible. He knows this, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

"You're welcome to stay, if you'd like. All you mortals, you know where you should be, in the end. If this is the place that feels right for you, then maybe you need to be here a while longer. These, however, are another matter entirely." She draws her hand away from his, and as she does so, several long, glowing strands come away with it, clinging to her palm as they're pulled freed of him. "They have been hanging about for far too long already."

"What are _those_?"

"Bits and pieces of other souls that got muddled up with yours. Like I said, your soul has had a lot of poking and prodding done to it over the years. All kinds of things getting attached and detached, all of it done by complete amateurs, of course. No good at doing a clean separation of soul and life force." She sniffs, separating the strands and carefully winding each one up into a little glowing ball.

"Those are… leftover bits of my friends?" Tim guesses, his stomach going tight and weird at the idea that he's been carrying parts of them with him for all this time without ever even realizing it.

"Among others," she agrees amicably, setting down one ball and starting on another. There are already several lining the step next to them, and he can't help but wonder how many there will be before she's done. "Mostly only very small pieces, but the coven was _very_ sloppy in the early years, and some of the older ones are pretty significant in size." She shows him the ball she's currently winding, already nearly the size of a fist.

Tim shudders. He knew there had to be side effects, growing up among necromancers, he just never expected… Well. "Thank you. For coming to get them."

"Like I said, I come for everyone, eventually. Took a lot longer with these than most, but I got them in the end. And now you have a nice clean soul again, all your own!" She smiles and stands, brushing invisible dust off her legs before reaching down to slip the soul balls into the pocket of her jeans. All of them, even the very largest, fit with ease. "Remember, feel free to stick around for as long as you like, but I'll come for you as well, eventually."

"I know," he says, because unlike some people, he wouldn't have it any other way. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome, Tim," Death replies. Then, just like that, between one moment and the next, she's gone. Not slinked off into the shadows like Batman, just… slipped past the edge of his vision when he wasn't paying attention, despite looking right at her the whole time.

Somewhere in the distance, a car is coming up the drive, and Tim leaps to his feet, eager to greet it. Maybe Jason is finally back from school.

* * *

"I think they've all been doing this for a long time, like decades and decades—maybe even centuries! Having kids just to suck the life out of them so they can get rich, or live longer, or whatever," Tim says, swooping down and around the trees lining the drive as he talks. He's getting pretty good at making hairpin turns on a moment's notice, much better than he was that first night when he followed Jason home from the Drake house.

"And you think your mom might be using one of her old aliases now?"

"Well, I think she used one to get back into the States with a dead body. I mean, if she came back with a dead Jack Drake, and then Jack Drake was fine and walking around again only a few days later, wouldn't that raise a lot of questions about zombies and stuff?" Tim veers off from his path suddenly and jerks to a stop in front of Jason. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I know you came back also, and you're not a zombie. I wasn't trying to say anything offensive!"

Jason laughs and shakes his head. "It's fine! Besides, I think I'm a little too short to try eating anyone's brains. Their stomachs, maybe."

"Y'think? I dunno, you're taller than me, and you're even taller than—well. You don't think you've grown any since you came back?" Tim tilts his head to the side, looking Jason up and down.

"I don't… Maybe? Doc Leslie says I might not end up very tall, on account of how I… Well, food was kinda tough to come by for a while there, before Bruce took me in." It's fine, Jason doesn't mind. It's easier to do flips and slip around bad guys when you're small and lithe, he doesn't need to be huge like Bruce.

"Malnourished," Tim says solemnly, nodding his head. "I was small for my age too, but for me it was because of 'failure to thrive'—that means nobody cared enough for me when I was little, so it stunted my growth."

"Your doctor actually told you that?" Jason knows all the gory details for his medical stuff because Doc Leslie believes everyone should know about their own bodies, but he always figured most rich-people doctors not to be nearly so straight-forward.

"No, of course not! I snuck a peek at my autopsy report. It wasn't anywhere near as interesting as I thought it would be, except for—" Tim stops, biting his lip.

"Except for what? Did they miss something?" The whole thing about having the actual murder victim to talk to means they _should_ be making a lot more progress on this than they have been, but if Tim's been holding stuff back…

"No," Tim says. "No, they didn't. I guess I just never expected to see my life summed up in such stark terms, is all."

"I got to see my autopsy report, once. Ba—Oracle, she thought it might help me process things, I guess? I got beaten by a crowbar, and then the building I was in blew up and collapsed on me—but guess what killed me, in the end?"

"Blood loss? That's what it was for me. Not even sudden trauma or anything. Apparently, I just lost so much blood my body couldn't keep going, so it stopped."

Jason shudders, remembering how much blood was on the basement floor. It was a _lot_. "No, suffocation. Well, smoke-inhalation, which means suffocation. All that other junk, and it was my lungs that gave up on me."

"But they're fine now, right? Your lungs?"

He takes in a deep breath, holds it for several long minutes, then lets it out again, thumping his chest. "Perfectly fine. Like new, the doc says."

"Good," Tim says, flashing one of those smiles that make his entire face light up. "Can't have you collapsing on me before we solve this thing, right?"

"Right!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman calls in an expert.

That night, Batman sends Robin home early, and Tim follows for a bit, then doubles back when it becomes clear Jason just intends to go back to the manor and go to bed, it being a school night and all. Being dead means no school, no curfew, no bedtimes. Not that he even gets sleepy or tired anymore.

Enough time has passed that Batman has moved on from where he and Robin parted ways earlier, but that's alright. Through trial and error, he's learned that while he can't find Batman nearly as easily as he can Jason, there's definitely a part of him that's keyed to the man, at least as long as he's wearing the cape and cowl. Now, Tim rises above the city, letting his mind drift and his senses reach out. He can feel a definite tug from the direction of Bristol, one so strong he knows it has to be Jason. Another a gentler, less urgent tug beckons him towards the Upper West Side of the city, and that's the one Tim follows, though he has a pretty good idea where it's leading him.

He slips down through the pipes of his parents' house, making himself tiny so he can squeeze through small spaces. Being dead means he can walk through walls and things now—actually has to make a conscious effort if he doesn't want to do that—but it still creeps him out enough that he avoids it unless there's no other way into a space. Plus, this way he gets to practice being sneaky, just like Robin.

It doesn't take long for him to reach the basement, and he tumbles out of the water heater, rolling across the floor until he stops himself just before he can cross over the deep grooves of the circle etched into the floor. While Tim is reasonably sure it can't do anything to him now, he'd rather not risk it.

"A lot of bad stuff has gone down here, Bats," an accented voice is saying, and Tim rights himself, searching the big room until he sees Batman and another man standing on the other side of the circle. The man is blond and scruffy, looking much too average for the level of sheer _power_ Tim can feel radiating off of him.

"I can get you photographs of the crime scene before they cleaned it up if you want them," Batman says. "At least one boy was killed that we know of for certain."

"You think he wasn't the only one?"

"I'm reserving my judgement until further evidence has been gathered." Batman hesitates, clearly troubled by something before he adds, "Robin… claims to be in contact with the dead boy's spirit."

Tim straightens, going to high-alert at this. This stranger may not be able to see him, but he still reeks of magic and more than enough skill to perform an exorcism if he feels like it… or if Batman asks him to remove the otherworldly presence that's influencing his son. Maybe not as complete as the one he did on his dad, but possibly one capable of preventing him from interacting with Jason any longer.

"Hm. Your boy's never shown any talent as a medium before. You think it might be something nasty's gone and dug its claws in? I can pop by and take a look later, if you like." He knocks a cigarette out of the pack he's been fiddling with, but doesn't make a move to light it. "Unless you think he might be telling the truth."

"You remember what happened last spring, the incident with… The incident. He died and came back again—is it possible Robin may have gained the ability to see spirits others can't as a part of that?"

"Oh, certainly. People who've seen the other side, spent a good amount of time there—they're never quite the same again, after. Starting at things others can't see, having downright uncanny intuition. But it also leaves them more vulnerable to the nasty things that lurk in the places between planes, the ghoulies and the beasties and all that. Your kid, he behaving normal other than the new invisible friend?"

"Decidedly so. If anything, I think whatever it is has been getting a little annoyed that Robin likes to prioritize homework over patrol, most nights," Batman says, a hint of humor coloring his words.

"Oh, that's not fair—it's _homework_! What kid wants to do homework instead of fighting crime?" Tim protests, though he immediately regrets his outburst when the blond man's head snaps around and he squints vaguely towards Tim.

"But nothing secretive?" he tosses back to Batman, still peering in Tim's general direction. "No sneaking around, dark circles under his eyes, furtive glances, strange odors, unexpected bouts of rage, any of that?"

"He's a teenager, so all of that's definitely happening, but it's not any worse than how he was before this. In some ways, he's even better behaved than Nightwing was at this age. But it just may be that I have more experience under my belt and that's factoring in." Batman's words take on a wistful sort of proud affection, making Tim's heart ache and twist. He never… His parents didn't…

Well. Too late for that now.

"Probably not a demon, then."

"Was that a concern?"

"Well, this is definitely the workshop of one or more dark magicians, and there's been at least one human sacrifice in a pretty powerful magical circle that looks permanent enough to've been used on multiple occasions."

"Constantine, if there's a possibility that Robin could be in serious danger—"

"Relax, Bats. It's a power-augmentation circle, not a summoning one. It's for focusing and directing the power obtained from the sacrifice, turning it towards whatever spell the magician is casting. Could be used for just about anything, a circle like this."

"According to Robin, the woman was trying to revive her dead husband, though he also says she wasn't successful, since her son somehow hijacked the ceremony."

"Oh _really_? That's… hm. That's rather interesting. It's easy to mess up a resurrection spell, but quite difficult to do it in a way that doesn't result in leaving some nasty surprise for the caster and anyone else who's unfortunate enough to stumble along later," Constantine says, walking around the circle and carefully examining it from every angle. "This particular working… There was a _lot_ of power wrapped up in it. How old was the dead boy?"

"Thirteen."

"Huh. And only just the one boy? The power that went through here seems like it was a bit on the high side for someone so young. Sure, there'd be a certain amount of bonus _oomph_ if he was good-hearted, virtuous, and unspoilt. Particularly violent death?"

"Didn't look like it. Some signs of restraint prior to death, but none of the excessive bruising that's generally seen with significant struggle, just ropes being tied too tightly. Aside from minor bruises around the wrists and ankles, the only major injury was a single cut from a very sharp blade, stem to sternum. Died from blood loss, not trauma." Batman is so cold and methodical as he describes it all, making it sound just as dry and dull as the coroner's report Tim sneaked a look at the other night.

"I should have fought harder," Tim says now. "I mean, it wouldn't have done anything, I know that, but I should have _tried_." It had been hard to see the point of trying at the time, he remembers. But it wasn't like there was anyone at all who might come to his rescue, not then. Nor had there been any good reason to keep going, other than to stop his mother. Everything had seemed terrifyingly pointless.

Once again, Constantine glances in his direction, but his eyes skate over Tim, never once focusing on him directly. "There are certain death rituals that can invoke additional power, but it doesn't sound like any of those were used here. I don't suppose you've seen a spirit board about the place?"

"I can't say I have, but I haven't been particularly keen on poking around things whose power I don't fully understand."

Seeing his chance, Tim shoots across the room to rattle a cupboard. He can't open it—it's hard enough, just ruffling pages or pressing the occasional computer key, but the hinges are old and worn enough that he can shake the door some. This would be so much easier if Jason was here, but he understands why Batman sent him home. It must be very difficult for him, seeing his son in a place he knows another boy died.

"Seems Robin was right and you're getting some help with this," Constantine says, quickly striding over to open the cupboard and take out the spirit board and planchette stored there. He stands directly where Tim is, and that's more than a little weird and distressing. Tim never wants to see the inside of another person's skull ever again.

"Are you saying the ghost is here right now?"

"No idea, but I sure as hell hope he is. Spirit boards are next to useless without a spirit to help guide the show," Constantine says as he sets up the board and planchette on a nearby table before pulling up a chair. "Well, come on and join us. He's sure to like working with you loads more than with me."

"What makes you say that?" Batman wants to know, though he takes another chair and removes a gauntlet, tentatively laying his a bare hand on the planchette alongside Constantine's.

"He's a Gothamite who's fixated on your Robin. It would make sense for him to be a Batman fan. Now, what did you say the boy's name was? They tend to be a bit more cooperative if you—"

Constantine's hand is slippery under Tim's grasp when he tries to guide it, but Batman's is warm and almost solid. In fact, when he reaches over to gently move it, his own hand slips easily inside, and he finds he has complete control over it, able to quickly and smoothly spell out the answer to the question: _T-I-M_.

"I swear I'm not doing that," Batman says, sounding shaky and uncomfortable. "I can't—John, it's like my hand isn't mine."

The distress isn't right; he never meant to upset Batman. _S-O-R-R-Y_ , he spells out, then carefully pulls his hand free. It's more like slipping off a slightly too-large glove rather than de-possessing a person. At least, he thinks that might be what he's doing.

"Ah, yeah. Thought as much. Seems he's got a thing for you as well as Robin. Means it should be easier to talk to him. Right, 'Tim,'" Constantine says, and Tim can _hear_ the quotation marks around his name, like the man doesn't believe he's actually himself, doesn't believe he isn't some awful thing from out of limbo, bent on hurting Batman—on hurting _Robin_. "How'd you die?"

With more than a little reluctance, Tim slips his hand back into Batman's, guiding the planchette across the board. _M-Y-M-O-M_.

"Constantine, we already know this. The GCPD turned up security footage from Archie Goodwin International of Janet Drake reentering the country using an assumed name and false passport over four months ago, and Timothy Drake went missing from school shortly after that."

Wait—four months ago? But Tim hasn't been dead that long, has he? The police only came last week, and Batman and Robin right after that. Everyone said Tim had to have only just died— _everyone_ , even the coroner. _N-O-T-4_ , he quickly spells out, jerking the planchette somewhat clumsily in his effort to make this clear. _N-O-T-4-N-O-T-4-N—_

Batman wrenches his hand off the planchette, massaging it with the other one. "He didn't like that. Something about four months upset him."

Constantine's staring down at the board, his face unreadable. "Tim. How long have you been dead?" he asks, placing his own hand back on the planchette.

It's harder to guide it without Batman there. Constantine is so slippery that Tim can't get his hand inside the way he did with Batman, has to instead nudge the planchette directly, which is honestly made harder by the weight of the hand on top of it. Finally, frustrated, he pinches Constantine's hand until it moves away. Left with the planchette all to himself, he slowly spells out his reply. _1-W-E-E-K-G-C-P-D-F-O-U-N-D-M-E._

"That fits with what the coroner found," Batman says. "There was blood all over the circle when the GCPD investigated, still fresh and tacky. The body was the same."

"Hmm. Do you happen to know why the police were called in the first place?"

"Something about complaints from the neighbors? Loud sounds and flashing lights from the basement. The parents were still supposed to be out of the country, but at the same time they hadn't responded when Tim's school reported the boy missing last fall. I think it was a combination of various different factors."

"But I haven't been gone from school for four months! I've only been gone a _week_!" Tim wails, and overhead the lights flicker.

"He _really_ doesn't like that time-table. And when one considers the amount of raw power that was casually being thrown around here…" Constantine glances back at the spirit board. "Bats, think you can stand putting your hand back on? He seemed to do best using you as a medium."

With some reluctance, Batman returns his bare hand to the planchette, and Tim quickly pulls back. He doesn't want to take control of Batman except for when he absolutely has to. Anything else would be a complete violation of his trust.

"Tim. Yes or no questions only, this time. Did your mum hold you captive for very long before the ritual?"

_NO._

"No chained in the basement, made to watch arcane rituals, any hooey like that?"

_NO._

"Right… Last question now, and then Bats here is going to pull off his hand, alright? Tim, what month was it when you died?"

It's a stupid question, because it's the middle of the month _now_ , so it's not like it's changed, but whatever. Tim gets as far as spelling out _S-E-P-T_ , and then Batman takes his hand away.

"How is that even possible?" Batman asks, sounding shaky and concerned. "Surely it can't be—I mean, even _with_ the airport security footage, that's not—"

"Tim, it's January," Constantine says, ignoring Batman. "You've been dead for nearly six months, your body preserved by the magic circle and the massive power surge that came from the spell. I'm sorry, but there's a good chance your mum could be anywhere in the world by now. It's doubtful you'll be able to find her again."

January? How can it be _January_? If so much time has passed—passed without Tim even being aware of it, even noticing it—what else has happened without his knowing? The time between his death and Jason finding him is all foggy in his mind and all he really remembers is being _angry_. At his mother, at his father, at all their friends and cronies. There may not be much on ghosts in his parents' books, but they all agree on one thing—lot of bad things can happen to the living when the dead get mad.

Maybe Constantine is wrong. Maybe Janet Drake never went anywhere at all.

* * *

"Hey, can you open up the door? I don't—I'd rather not go through it right now."

Setting his book aside, Jason scrambles out of bed to see to Tim's request, easing the door open so the ghost can float inside. "Holy heck, you look awful. Everything alright?"

"I went back to Batman, after you left," Tim says, following him back to bed and sitting cross-legged at the foot of it as Jason gets back under the covers. "He went to my parents' house with a magician—Constantine? Anyway, they talked about stuff. About my death, what happened. Got my parents' old spirit board out so I could talk back."

"Okay…" Bruce has mentioned Constantine before, someone who sometimes works with the Justice League as a sort of consultant; Jason thinks he might have even met him once in passing. It's surprising he didn't bring in Zatanna instead like he usually does for magic stuff, but maybe the boss thought this guy would know more. "They didn't say anything mean to you, did they? I know B and Alf are worried about me and think you're imaginary, but they're sure to warm up eventually, I swear."

"No, it's. Well. I think Batman's a little worried I might be an evil spirit or a demon in disguise?" Tim admits, hunching his shoulders.

"That's stupid," is Jason's immediate reaction.

"It's not, actually. I mean, just because I _say_ I'm Tim Drake doesn't mean I actually am. I could be something else entirely, something that stole Tim Drake's face and voice and mannerisms. There's a lot of bad stuff that happens with magic, Jason. It's not all rabbits out of hats, and it's a good idea to be extra-cautious about things."

"But if you _were_ an evil thing, it's not like you'd ever warn me, right?" Besides, Tim is his _friend_ , he doesn't want to think he might be someone, some _thing_ completely different.

"Or maybe I'd warn you just to give you a false sense of security! Heck, maybe even _I_ don't know I'm not Tim Drake! You shouldn't—you can't trust me, Jason. And you definitely shouldn't have let me into your room like that. You shouldn't _ever_ let _anything_ in that you aren't absolutely certain of, _especially_ when it comes to supernatural stuff," Tim says fiercely, glaring at Jason.

"Hey, woah," he says, raising his hands, trying to calm and reassure the ghost. "Where is all this coming from? You were fine earlier, now you think you might not be you?"

"It's… I." Tim squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his jaw. "Is it really January?"

"Of course?" Jason shakes his head, uncomprehending. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"When I died… When I died, the school year had only just started. It was September," Tim whispers.

"But your body—"

"Constantine said there was a massive power surge. Or something. A lot more than there should have been, for the kind of ritual my mom did. All that power did something, preserved my blood and my body and everything else inside the circle until the police stumbled across it. I died last fall and I… I don't know where my mom is now."

"Okay, so she has a bit more of a lead than we thought she did. That's fine, though. It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—? _Jason_ , I don't even _remember_ that much time passing! I died, and the spell all went—well, I messed it up, I know. It didn't do what it was supposed to do, but I was really angry, I know I was really angry because dying like that ruined everything and I thought it might not have—she's my mom! How could she do something like that, how could she—"

"Hey, whoa, calm down," Jason says, throwing back the covers and crawling across the bed to sit beside Tim. He can't hold or hug him, can't even give his hand a reassuring squeeze. But he can do this much. He can sit with him, keep him company. "So you've been dead a bit longer than we all thought. It's really not that big a deal."

"You don't understand. I was so _mad_ , Jason," Tim says in a small voice, glancing through his bangs with scared eyes. "I was _so_ mad, and I… I think I might've killed her. I think I might've killed my mom, and I don't even remember doing it."

"Oh." Jason isn't exactly sure what to say to that one. What words he can offer to make his friend feel better about this. "Is that… That's pretty hard. I mean—she was still your _mom_."

"That's the part that really scares me," Tim admits. "I don't—she _killed_ me, but it's still… I don't want to kill her. Didn't want to, I don't think. But I—I might have. I was really upset when I died."

Jason nods, because he gets that. It's not like with Sheila, where she betrayed him but later regretted it when she saw what she'd done. Janet Drake killed her son in cold blood. She looked at this child she had borne and raised and decided she'd rather have her husband back than keep her kid—which, considering what else they suspect her of doing, isn't that surprising, but. "My mom—my birth mom, not my _real_ mom—she wasn't a good person," he says softly. "But I didn't know that and I… I wanted to meet her. Me and B, we were having some hard times, and I missed my real mom so much. So when I found Sheila, I ran away to go meet her. I thought maybe she'd hold me like my mom used to."

"Did she?"

"Well. Turned out she was working with the _Joker_ , of all people. I don't think she even realized what kind of person he was? Or maybe she did, but she didn't want to know, so she pretended she didn't. She sold me out to him, and he nearly beat me to death with a crowbar, then locked me and her up with a bomb and left." Jason bites his lip, picking at the comforter. He hasn't really talked about this with anyone, not even Bruce or Alfred. They haven't pressed for details about what happened, and he's grateful for that. But sometimes he kind of wishes they would, because that way maybe he could work out how he feels about the whole thing. "She was tied up, and I wasted time freeing her—I didn't know about the bomb, didn't find it until after. But, if I hadn't done that, if I'd gone straight to the door, I might've broken it open and gotten out. If I hadn't gone back for her, I might not've—"

"Don't say that," Tim says, lightly brushing transparent fingers over the back of Jason's hand. He can't feel the touch, but there's the smallest of chills, and that's somehow comforting. "She was still your mom, even if she did hurt you like that. Saving her, that's what makes you a hero, a truly good person."

"But I didn't, y'know? I didn't save her, because I couldn't get the door open and I couldn't stop the bomb. All I did was make it so we both died. What's heroic about that?"

"You were pretty badly hurt, you don't even know if you could've opened the door," Tim insists. "At least this way, she died knowing you forgave her. Turned the other cheek and all that. It shows you're a better person than Joker, a better person than a lot of people. There aren't many who would do what you did, Jason. Prioritize someone else's life above your own—the life of someone who isn't even a very good person, but who still deserves to live. Because. Because everyone deserves to live."

Jason isn't too sure about _that_ —if he had about a hundred pounds more muscle to him, a crowbar, and an hour alone with the Joker, he thinks he could make a very good argument against it, in fact. But they aren't talking about his demons now, awful as they might be. They're talking about Tim's. "You know… if you did kill your mom, that's still okay too, right? It's… it would basically be self-defense."

"I don't think it counts as self-defense if you're already _dead_."

"Okay, point, but it at least counts as karma. And besides, considering all the crap you've dug up on her, she wasn't a good person and she hurt loads of people aside from you. Could be you saved a lot of lives going into the future— _if_ you killed her, and I don't even think that you did. I mean, yours was the only body in that basement, right?"

"Well, _technically_ there are a bunch more bodies there too, as you'll see if you ever manage to convince Commissioner Gordon to dig up the floor, so—"

"I _mean_ , out in the open. Just you, nobody else. And if the magic circle was what preserved your body all that time, then your mom should have been all ripe and whiffery months ago, back during that weird heatwave in October."

"Wait, what heatwave?"

"Not important. Also, wasn't your dad's body there too? I don't know how this necromancy crap works or anything, but I'm pretty sure you need to have the body of the dead person you want to raise handy when you give it a go."

"Well, not necessarily. But it certainly helps." Tim tilts his head to the side. "There was a big pine box when she called me down to the basement and I'm pretty sure it had my dad in it. I don't… I don't remember what happened to him, or the box. Maybe I blew him up?"

" _Can_ you blow stuff up?"

"I don't know! It's not like this ghost stuff comes with a _manual_. There's loads of stuff about how to bring back the dead or get power from sacrificing the living, but it's not like any dead people are going out of their way to write books about what to expect when you're a lingering aspect of a sentient being that's not too keen on passing on to the afterlife. Though…" Tim squirms slightly, glancing away.

"Though?"

"There's a… possibility I might be able to possess you. And Batman. A _slim_ possibility, but. Constantine says I have a kind of… connection to you. It was really easy to operate the spirit board through Batman, though that was just his hand."

"Okay, that's… weird. Probably something we should revisit later with the caveat now that you are _not_ allowed to possess me—or him—without getting permission first," Jason says, and he's relieved to see Tim nod in furious agreement, apparently just as weirded out by the whole thing as he is. "Back to your parents, though. There was no sign of a pine box or any oth—ah, I mean, any _adult_ bodies in the house. And no complaints about smell or anything from the neighbors. Chances are, your mom freaked when her spell went haywire and just hightailed it out of there. Maybe she took your dad's corpse with her."

"Oh," Tim says, sitting up straighter like something has only just occurred to him. "That means she might try again."

" _Shit_. And we don't have a _clue_ where she is—"

Tim laughs, shaking his head. "Don't you see? We've got plenty of time. She can't try again until she has another sacrifice, and it's barely been six months. I mean, _maybe_ she was pregnant when she came back from being abroad, but if she was why not wait until she had that baby and use it instead of sacrificing her long-term investment? No, she probably found one of her coven and got them to, to… Well." He coughs, silvery cheeks flushing slightly. "We probably have another three months or so, from the level of development of the babies I found under the floor."

"But that's awful! That means she's going to kill _another_ baby before we can stop her!"

"Well, maybe. But there's a good chance that if she tries to bring back my dad again, I'll be able to sense it. I know I disrupted her spell last time, but think I might've accidentally still ended up sort of… tied to his body, to the point where if someone tries to bring him back, I'll know."

"Like a spiritual tracking system? Creepy, but useful."

"I guess." Tim shifts slightly, then glances up at Jason, smiling shyly. "I'm sorry I woke you up, I just… I was really scared I might've—thanks, Jason."

"Hey, no sweat, I was just reading anyway. But I don't mind you waking me up for stuff like this. It's really scary, all this crap that's happened to you, is still happening to you. I just wish I could do something more to help." Like at least give Tim the hug he so desperately needs right now.

"You've done plenty. You're a really good friend—an _amazing_ friend."

"Yeah, well. Your judgement might be a bit skewed. I hear all your friends are dead," Jason says, trying so hard to deflect that he doesn't realize until too late what he just said. "Shit, sorry, I shouldn't've—"

"It's fine, I don't mind." Tim takes in a deep breath, then flashes him a brilliant, hundred-watt smile. "Get some sleep, you need it. And thank you again. For always believing in me."

The ghost surges forward, passing so close to Jason that some part of him must pass through his cheek, leaving it slightly numb. From the bed, he watches as the tip of one shoe disappears through the solid wood of the door, leaving him alone in the silence once more. His cheek still tingles slightly, and Jason gently touches it. He thinks… it almost felt like lips brushed against it as Tim went by, but he probably imagined that. Tim's just a kid, there's no way he'd ever… Well.

Shoving the thought aside, he crawls back under the covers, snuggling down into the warm cocoon of blankets. This whole thing with Tim is messed up, but he can't do anything about it at—yikes—two in the morning, and he definitely won't be able to do anything come daylight if he doesn't get some sleep now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GCPD digs up the basement.

It takes the better part of a week of Jason riding his bike over to Gotham Central every day after school to harass Gordon for the man to finally agree to dig up the basement of the Drake house. Tim tries to think of it like that—the Drake house, his parents' house, the place where he died. Never _his_ house, though he spent plenty of time there during his younger years, in between day care, preschool, and kindergarten. Back when he was too young to send to one of the disturbingly large number of boarding schools that populate Gotham and neighboring Bristol and Kane Counties.

"Are you going to go to the house to watch?" Jason asks him Thursday morning in front of Gotham High, after Alfred has dropped him off for school. At a loss for what to do with himself, Tim's been tagging along with him, sitting in on classes and trying to understand what it is that Jason finds so fascinating.

Or, well. It actually _is_ interesting, though he still finds it difficult to keep track of all the dates and names and battles in history, and English is a bit too metaphorical for his tastes. But math and science are a lot more engrossing at the high school level than at the junior high level, and Tim wonders if maybe part of the reason he always had difficulty engaging in the subject matter was that he was a bit too bright and should have been skipped ahead to more challenging classes years ago.

Too late to worry about that now, of course.

"Tim?" Jason asks, and Tim realizes he never replied, being so distracted mulling over school.

"Sorry, my mind wandered. I… don't think so? I mean, I guess I should, but it's not like I can do anything, and. It's a lot of bodies. I think a lot of them are probably babies my—that Janet had, but some felt a little bigger and they might. I mean." Tim glances at all the kids milling about them, calling to friends, laughing. Living. "It's a really permanent circle, and the pipes constantly needed work when I was little, so the floor kept getting ripped up and re-poured. I remember, because it seemed like every time one of my friends moved away when I was little, my—Jack was in the basement, working on the plumbing."

"Oh. Jeez, Tim, that's. Yikes."

"I think they might have been the leaders of the coven? I mean, they mostly met at the house, and that could be why the Drakes stayed in Gotham even after everyone else left." Not that they were ever in Gotham all that much anyway—heck, it could be they'd already established themselves in another community long before hi—before Jack died, and all those trips for 'work' were mostly just them shoring up new identities for when they finally left behind Jack and Janet Drake for good.

He wonders what would have happened to him, if Jack had never died.

"Anyway, Batman's friend Constantine apparently already has a bit of a relationship with the police, so he's going to be there just in case my—just in case the coven left any nasty surprises. And they have the list we gave them." The list of all of Tim's friends, their names and the ages they'd been when they 'moved away.' "So they'll know the relative sizes of... Of what they should be looking for."

"Yeah, okay. Do you want us to go tonight?" Jason asks under his breath, turning towards the front doors of the school and climbing the stairs. "I was going to stay in and start on the essay for English but I can put that off until Saturday."

"No, it's fine," Tim says, lifting up to hover above Jason so there's less chance of someone walking through him. "There's not much more we can do unless Janet tries to bring back Jack again." And besides, Jason doesn't need to see that many dead kids. Doesn't need to see how tiny some of those skeletons are.

Though, of course. Just because Jason is staying away from the house doesn't mean Tim has to.

* * *

The last lingering rays of sun reflect off the coroner vans parked on the usually quiet street, along with three patrol cars and possibly more than a few unmarkeds—Tim sees the detective that was there that first night he followed Robin out of the house climbing out of one as Batman swings into the backyard and slips in through the basement window. Apparently only Robins and the police use front doors.

There aren't many shadows left in the basement to hide in, what with all the floodlights, but there's a nice dense spot in the corner between the stairs and the boiler, so it doesn't surprise Tim when that's where Batman immediately slinks off to. The police have cones sitting all around the circle, but aside from that nearly the entire floor has been ripped up, and there are a lot of people in jackets that say 'Coroner' crouched here and there, brushing away dirt to uncover bones or partially decayed remains.

Tim has never been so grateful as he is now that his own body was preserved by the circle. That Bruce Wayne was kind enough to see to his burial and ensure that he'll never have to see himself like this, half-rotted into nothing but the base parts.

Constantine is standing to the side with Commissioner Gordon, the two of them overseeing the whole thing and both of them with unlit cigarettes clenched between their teeth. They're already standing close to the one spot of shadows, and edge even closer now.

"Well, kudos to the Wayne kid's medium talents. Bodies every place he said they'd be, and we've already matched at least five to the list he provided," Gordon says under his breath as he gets within earshot of the shadow. "I see you're alone tonight. Robin stay in?"

"He didn't need to see this," Batman growls. They might not be able to see him because of the shadows, but Tim's found his night vision has become amazing since dying, and the shiny wetness on the dark knight's cheeks is very obvious from where he floats. While he agrees that Jason didn't need to see any of this, he half-wishes he'd encouraged his friend to come, if for no other reason than at least there would be someone here who isn't afraid to give Batman the hug he so obviously needs.

Moving down, Tim lets his arm sink into Batman's, taking control of it so he can raise it up and wave at the other two men. "Ah," Batman says. "It would seem that Tim is with us as well."

"Don't tell me _you're_ a medium now too," Gordon groans, clenching his teeth on his unlit cigarette.

"Not exactly. I can't see or hear him, but it seems he finds it easy to take control of my body when it suits him."

"Possession, you mean."

Tim jerks backwards, pulling his arm free. "No, I would never—" He glances at Constantine, pleading for him to at least have some measure of understanding. "I wouldn't! Not unless he said it was okay, and even then—It's really weird, taking control of another person, wearing them like a glove. I don't ever want to wear anyone like a suit, I swear!"

"I… don't think he liked the implications of what you said, Jim," Batman says, lifting his hand and flexing it slightly. "He gave me back my hand right after."

"Hmm. Jason Wayne's made it clear that the ghost he's in contact with is always polite, never asks him to do anything he's uncomfortable with. Could be you're right about that."

"Tricky business, communing with the dead," Constantine observes. "Even they can't be sure they're who they think they are. Better to have as little contact with them as you can, just in case something nasty decides to use them as a way to bridge the gap between worlds."

Tim gulps, edging even further away from Batman. Since dying, he's seen other ghosts about the city. Not often, but once or twice now, from a distance. He's never interacted with them, has always gone the other direction as soon as he noticed them, but still. His pa—the books the Drakes kept in their study covered a variety of topics, demonology included, but there hadn't been much on ghosts. Just that they happened sometimes, and that only another ghost was capable of banishing one permanently.

At least the banishing spell had proved itself real and accurate.

"Aah. I'll make sure Jason's father knows," the commissioner says, sounding for all the world like he really means to do it. Tim glances between him and Batman, wonders yet again if Jason is right and Gordon is perfectly aware of who exactly is under the cowl.

"A sound plan."

"Anyway. We've found six children between the ages of four and eight, and are fairly certain of the identities of at least five of them going from the list," Gordon says, acting for all the world like this is a completely normal case and he's just sharing information with colleagues. "Unfortunately, it's likely the Feds'll move in and take it over any day now. Probably better, since there's a good chance the parents have moved to a different state. Wish we had some kind of bead on them, but Jason says Tim can't help unless another attempt is made at reviving Jack Drake."

"Is that so?" Constantine asks, looking unreasonably interested in that news. Tim shifts nervously, shrinking even further into the darkness behind the boiler. If Constantine suspects the truth of what happened back in September, it could be bad. "The little ghost claimed he disrupted the spell, didn't he? Why would he be able to tell if the body was brought back?"

"Hell if I know, that's your field of expertise, isn't it? Jason just said Tim had placed some kind of spirit-tracker on the corpse, something that'll activate if another spell of the same type is done."

"Doesn't sound like any spell I've encountered before," Constantine mutters, then adds, "but ghosts are odd ducks. Could be the kid's found something special," and Tim lets out the unnecessary breath he's been holding.

"We've found a number of babies and some that may be aborted fetuses in addition to the children," Gordon adds. "These are some very sick people."

Tim shudders and nods, though he knows there's no one to see it anymore than there was anyone to hear his earlier protests. He knows he has to stop behaving like everyone can see and hear him, but it's difficult to break the habit after a lifetime of doing otherwise. He wonders how many of those babies are siblings of his, never allowed to live, or only living just long enough to be sacrificed for some stupid spell. It's such a shame—he always wanted to be a big brother.

Batman and the others clearly intend to stay as long as it takes to find all the bodies, something Tim just doesn't have the stomach for. Unnoticed, he slips back out the window and into the cold winter night.

* * *

Since Tim's family can't be found (since his dad is dead and his mom is in hiding because she's a serial-killing _baby murderer_ ), Bruce Wayne takes responsibility for seeing to his burial. A couple of years ago, it might have garnered unwanted attention for one of Gotham's preeminent citizens to take an interest in the dead kid of a well-to-do but otherwise unremarkable couple. But that was a couple of years ago, before the very public death of Bruce's own son as well as his unexpected return to life.

It would be weird, except in a world where there are super-powered heroes and lunatic clowns, one dead kid coming back to life isn't that remarkable. It probably also helps that Jason has already established a link between himself and the dead boy, what with this whole police psychic story. Not that it's common knowledge or anything, but the fact that GCPD already knows that Jason has a connection to the case means they're less likely to be perturbed by Bruce showing an interest as well. Hopefully.

Per Tim's request as relayed by Jason, the casket is closed, and the service is non-denominational. "I don't know if the Drakes were ever ones for religion. We didn't do holidays, and I only got birthday presents a few times, sometimes months before or after my actual birthday. I'm not entirely sure if they even remembered when I was born," Tim admits, peering over his shoulder at the small crowd assembled around the open grave.

"That's messed up," Jason mutters. He doesn't point out that the Drakes were awful parents because he's pretty sure they've already established that, what with the neglect and the murder and all. Tim is still staring, his eyes getting wider and wider as more people wander up to take a seat one of the rows of provided folding chairs. "Something wrong?"

"There's so many people! I mean, I guess I kind of expected you and Ba—Bruce and Alfred, but that's the commissioner of police! And the cops from the crime scene, and the coroner!"

Jason was a little surprised as well when the commissioner showed up, but he supposes it makes sense—Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne are friends, and this whole thing involves Bruce's son. Plus, Gordon's a dad and this is a prominent case of child murder. "Cops like to show up at the funerals of murder victims, just in case the killer shows up." Usually it's just the detectives assigned to the case, but he supposes this makes sense—there were a lot of bodies in the Drakes' basement; Tim's was just the most obvious. And no one likes it when kids are killed.

"Yeah, but—but I think some of those kids were in my classes—and that's my roommate from my last boarding school!" 

"Generally people go to the funeral when their friend dies," Jason mutters.

"All my friends are dead, though. I didn't—I wasn't supposed to make friends at school. I was supposed to focus on my schoolwork, my parents always said," Tim explains. "I... I tried having friends, once. There was a kid at one school, he used to play Warlocks & Warriors and he'd tell me about it at lunch. It sounded really interesting, so he invited me to his house for a game one time."

Against his better judgement, Jason asks, "What happened?"

"Got transferred to a different school when I asked permission to go. But. He's over there now? I didn't think he even remembered me after all this time." Jason follows Tim's finger until he picks out a blond boy with glasses sitting near the rear, looking nervous and decidedly uncomfortable. The nervousness only intensifies when he notices Jason's gaze, and he ducks his head, immediately looking away.

"Do you want me to talk to him, after?" Jason asks, turning his attention back to the front where Bruce is giving a very nice eulogy about a boy none of the people here really knew during the short time he was alive.

"No, I don't want to make him uncomfortable. Like I said, we weren't really friends, ever," Tim says. It almost breaks Jason's heart, how wistful he sounds. Regretful of yet another missed opportunity that he'll never have a chance to follow up on, now.

* * *

Despite both Tim and Batman's efforts to the contrary, Jason still insists on coming along at least one more time to the Drake house. "I need to see it for myself," he says. "Maybe there's something you've missed that Tim's been trying to tell you and your silly board can't convey."

Batman grunts as he navigates the car through Gotham's dark streets and his mouth goes thin. "You know about the board, then?"

"Uh, _duh_. Tim and I, we _do_ talk about sh—stuff when you're not there, you know."

For his part, Tim thinks this is an unnecessary risk. "If there was something they missed, I would have already told you, Jason. You really don't need to come. And this is just clean-up. Everything else is already done."

Jason twists around to glare into the back seat of the Batmobile. " _You_ think it's not that big a deal that your _mo_ —that Janet killed you. Like I'm gonna listen to you on what's important and what's not."

"Ah," Batman says. "Tim is with us tonight?" He's become a lot better about them having conversations without him, which is good—great, actually, particularly since Jason really hopes Tim sticks around even after they track down his psycho mom and turn her over to the cops.

"Of _course_. He always goes along with you to the house, even when he _says_ he's not going to."

"I never said I wasn't going," Tim protests. "Just that I didn't feel I had to be there for everything."

"Fine, so you don't stick around the whole time. Still. I don't know why you keep feeling a need to go back over and over when it's where you died. Shouldn't you be pretty sick of it now?"

"I never said I wasn't sick of it. I don't _like_ going back anymore than you do, now—don't pretend you're okay with it, I know you're not good with dead kids, and that's what I was. Am."

"Yeah, well. All the dead kids are gone now, 'cept for you. And you're pretty sprightly for a dead guy."

Tim starts to protest—because he _always_ protests Jason seeing the basement for some stupid reason, like he thinks it's gonna give him trauma flashbacks or some bullshit—but B's growl cuts through their chatter. "We're here."

They're actually a few blocks from the house, one of the dark alleys Batman likes to hide the car in, so there's still some rooftop running to do. It's probably all a part of B's unspoken agreement with the Commish to pretend like he's not knee-deep in this whole thing, being the one with the occult connection and all.

Tim sticks with them as they fly through the night, only disappearing when they reach the house—he's trying to practice getting into buildings unseen via tricky ghost ways, so that makes sense. Jason goes in through the basement window, but Batman actually goes around front and uses the key that Gordon may have slipped him the other day. He thought it was because the old man's feeling all achy, but when he comes down the basement steps, there's someone else with him.

"Robin, you remember John Constantine."

"Hey," Jason says with more than a little trepidation, keeping back along the wall, his shoes sinking into the soft dirt that was bared during the police's exhumations. Tim has been nervous all day about this meeting, worried that Constantine might convince Jason he needs to exorcise him or something. As it is, the little ghost is clinging to the wall on the other side of the room, a faint glow half-hidden behind the boiler.

"I hear you have a little spectral stalker these days, kid," Constantine says. He smiles but it's not a _nice_ smile, not even a neutral one. It's hard and sharp and more than a little vicious.

"Tim's a good ghost, he just wants to help,"

"Hrm, I'm sure," Constantine says, making it clear he doesn't believe Jason at all. "He here with us right now?"

"Why? You aren't going to try and get rid of him, are you? Because he doesn't want to go yet, not until we catch his—until we catch Janet Drake, at least." Jason corrects himself at the last minute, remembering that Tim is trying very hard to forget the blood connection between himself and the woman who killed him.

"Just curious, that's all." Constantine knocks a cigarette out of a rumpled pack and pops it in his mouth, but makes no move to light it as he walks around the circle, studiously eying it. "This is a nasty piece of work, but can't be more than ten, fifteen years old, if that. Probably added it whenever they moved to Gotham, or maybe they were holding their rituals in another place before they ran out of room for the bodies or some-such. Tedious to get rid of, but should be easy enough to destroy, now that most of the residual power's drawn out of it."

"You're sure about that?" Batman asks, moving stand beside him.

"Oh, sure. This Janet lady sure did a major fuck up with her last working. Any lingering power that remained all but disappeared once the kid's body was taken away."

After a glance to make sure both men's attentions are focused elsewhere, Jason edges around the room to where Tim is crouched. "Hey. You okay? You heard what he said, he's not going to try and get rid of you, and he's supposed to be leaving soon anyway."

"He still thinks I'm dangerous. What if he's right? Maybe we should let him get rid of me, before I can hurt anyone." Tim bites his lip, glancing over towards the circle. "Before I can hurt you."

"Hey, no. You're not going to hurt me or B or anybody else. I mean—you can barely move the planchette on the board! What're you going to do? Poke us to death?"

"It could happen, you shouldn't joke about stuff like that," Tim insists, leaping to his feet and pacing across the room.

Jason hops forward, hurrying to keep up with him. "Sorry, it's just. Why would you ever want to hurt me? We're friends, right?"

"I guess. But it's like I said—I don't even know if I'm me. I might not be, you know." Reaching up, Tim touches a cupboard, and the door falls open. "Please make sure Constantine takes the books in here with him, or at least that Batman takes them and gives them to a magician he trusts. The ones in the study upstairs are unpleasant and not nice, but these are the really nasty ones. I don't think they should be in evidence lock-up with the police, not with how some of the police in Gotham are."

Jason sighs—typical Tim, redirecting the conversation whenever it goes someplace he doesn't like. "Alright. Since you asked so nicely."

* * *

"I know you're still in here, kid," Constantine says, and Tim freezes, slowly turning from where he was about to pass through the door and follow after Jason.

"You can't see me," Tim says, though he's suddenly not so sure of that. The man isn't making eye-contact, but he _is_ looking straight at him, in a vague sort of way.

"I may not be able to really see or hear you, but I can feel that you're here, can sometimes get a sense of what you say. I'm leaving tomorrow, but before I go, I figured I should have a word with you."

Which would explain all the times Constantine glances in his direction after an outburst on Tim's part. Gulping, he drifts back to the table and gently nudges the planchette over so it points to the letter _Y_.

Constantine glances down at the board, his mouth a flat line. "I'm not going to exorcise you, if that's what you're worried about—though I probably could, if I felt like it, so don't get any funny ideas."

Tim frowns, carefully moving the planchette to _K_. Then, after waiting half a minute— _W-H-A-T-D-O-Y-O-U-W-A-N-T_.

"You know you shouldn't be a ghost, right? Surely you've noticed—all those dead kids in the basement, so much death and sadness and kooky magic all piled one on top of the other, excellent breeding ground for ghosts. And yet you're the only one. The only one out of the whole batch who not only fought back but also stuck around after."

Tim's useless heart seizes in his chest and for one panicked, awful moment he worries that Constantine has figured it out, that he _knows_. If he tells Batman—tells _Jason_ … That can't happen, Tim won't _let_ it happen. He'll make sure of it, somehow. 

And there's always the tiny chance that Constantine doesn't know. He has to be careful, not reveal too much before he needs to. _S-O-W-H-A-T_.

"Well, for one thing, I don't think your mum was just trying to bring back dear old daddy when she killed you. I think she was clearing her account before leaving the city."

Tim accidentally jostles the planchette, he's so surprised by this theory. "What? That doesn't make sense." _H-U-H_.

"Think about it, kid. All these nasty black magic users, flying under the radar for so long because they've been careful, only been sacrificing their own kids, and even then mostly killing unborns and newborns, only turning to the older kids when they needed a lot of oomph for something big. Because that's the thing, see? The older a kid is, the longer they've lived a life of ease and innocence, the more you get out of them. Bigger investment, bigger return. And you, you're what? Thirteen? Oldest kid the police found in that basement was nine."

It's… Tim never really thought of it that way before—his friends were all about the same age as him, some a little older, some a little younger. It never occurred to him that by being the last one standing, he ended up eldest by default. "What—that doesn't mean anything, though, right? It can't?" This time, his hands are shaking slightly as he moves the planchette across the board, once again spelling out _S-O-W-H-A-T_.

"Child sacrifice produces a lot of power, even when you're offing babes and unborns. All that lost potential. So much that it's hard to use it all in any one spell. A lot of it just gets wasted, bleeding out into the universe, attracting all kinds of attention that a lot of people'd rather not have," Constantine says, low and rough and more than a little frightening. "Unless you trap the extra in a vessel."

Tim's hand jerks on the planchette, sending it skittering across the table to the floor. There's no way—he can't _possibly_ mean… Except that would explain all those extra bits of souls that _she_ pulled out of him weeks ago. Extra bits that he's been trying very hard to not think too deeply on.

"Yeah, you get it now, don't you? Tricky business, storing power some way that no one will see it and also it won't get tainted by what you're doing. Best place to stick something like that is in a container just as pure as the one you grabbed the power from in the first place." Reaching into his pocket, Constantine pulls out a lighter and finally lights the cigarette he's been fiddling with this whole time. "Unfortunately, hard to keep that vessel from cottoning on to things not being as they should if you decide to pick up everything, skip town, and change your name. Better to put it into something more compact for transport. Maybe a smaller, less-difficult vessel. One that you've got on—or in—your person at all times, or at least until labor.

"None of those other kids had a chance to become ghosts because there wasn't any spiritual power left to them, once the coven was done draining it out. Storing it in their leaders' handy safety-deposit kid." Reaching down, Constantine picks up the planchette and sets it down on the board once more.

 _H-O-W_ , Tim spells out. _D-I-D-N-T-W-O-R-K_.

"Oh, well. Pure luck on your part, I suppose. Probably the fetus wasn't far enough along to take that much power, but your dad's death forced her hand. The earlier the better is generally the rule with bringing back the dead." He waits, clearly expecting to be asked more questions.

Tim stares down at the board and slowly backs away. Constantine doesn't know the whole story of what happened that night in the basement, can't know because the only person who does is Tim. All this new information means it's probably his fault that the power transfer didn't work. His fault that his little might-have-been brother-or-sister ended up being another lamb to slaughter, instead of getting at least some semblance of a life first. Maybe not a _happy_ life, but a better one than the brief, horrible thing he had.

Another victim of Tim's own selfish carelessness.

He doesn't even notice when Constantine leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janet tries again.

Jason has been dutifully passing on to the police all that Tim digs up on 'Janet Drake' and her cohorts. The investigation has definitely been helped along by an envelope of evidence that was found stashed away in Tim's room. When asked why he hadn't mentioned it sooner, the ghost had shrugged and looked vaguely embarrassed, admitting that he'd forgotten about it, between dying and everything. All that's done a lot to build a case against the perpetrators, it does no one any good as long as there's no lead on where the criminals could be.

Finally, almost two months after the discovery of a dead boy in a basement, Tim pops up in the middle of Jason's Trig test. "Holy—" he gasps, before he remembers himself and clamps his mouth shut. Still, that doesn't stop him from glaring at the ghost.

"Sorry, I know you have a test, sorry, just—it's happening! Janet, she—" Tim gulps, floating the rest of the way through the desk, hesitating in the air above it. "Should I go get Ba—Bruce instead? I didn't think she'd start in the middle of the afternoon, but—"

"Heck," Jason says, grabbing his bag and his phone and leaping to his feet.

" _Mister_ Wayne, you will _sit_ down and—"

"Yeah, yeah. I already finished your stupid test and I got someplace I gotta be," he calls back over his shoulder, already sprinting out the door and down the hall as he scrolls through his phone, looking for Gordon's number. He should probably call Bruce first, but it's important to do this the right way, in the right order.

As he waits for Gordon to pick up, he glances over his shoulder at Tim. "D'you think you can go on ahead and figure out where it is? Stop her from doing anything?"

"I—I can try? But I don't—how am I going to tell you once I find it? _I_ don't have a cellphone."

"Crap, you're right. Well, you can fly, right? Really fast? You better track her down before you lose the connection, that's the most important thing."

"Okay. If it helps, it's—I'm being pulled south, towards Metropolis."

Wouldn't it be just their luck if that's where Janet's been hiding all this time. "Okay, I'll let the adults know. And, Tim—be careful? All this kooky black magic stuff, we don't want her finishing what she started last time."

Tim swoops about, doing a loop-de-loop down the hall. "Don't worry, I'll be fine! What's she gonna do to me, kill me? I'm already dead!" he calls back, disappearing through a wall.

That's exactly what has Jason worried—since Tim is already dead, anything that happens to him now could be metaphysically _permanent_.

* * *

Tim travels through the air, letting the subtle tug on his soul draw him to wherever it is that someone is trying to revive Jack Drake's body. Trying, because there's no soul left to be pulled into the corpse, no matter how much power is sacrificed in the process.

It's the first time he's been able to go outside Gotham since dying; he's long since determined that he's limited to the territory vaguely defined as Batman and Robin's stomping grounds. Now, though—now it's _easy_ , flying along, across the bay towards shining spires rising out of the fog, bright sunlight glinting off windows and rooftops. It's beautiful, more gorgeous than anything he's seen before, and for the first time in what feels like ages his hands itch for the camera he'll never get to hold again.

He knows not all cities are like Gotham, that some sprawl out for miles upon miles in an endless warren of streets and neighborhoods—he's seen photographs and movies, he's not stupid. But they never seemed particularly _real_ before, and it isn't as if he ever had a chance to travel, back when he was alive. Metropolis may be just across the water, but for him it could have been as distant as Tokyo or Timbuktu.

More than anything he wants to linger and explore, see the sights and admire the architecture. Unfortunately, it seems that his newfound freedom is limited to his current task, and much as he tries to deviate from his course, it's quite impossible for him to do so. He flies past LexCorp Towers and the golden globe of the Daily Planet, streaking by S.T.A.R. Labs, then across the river until he reaches an elegant apartment building, at which point he's yanked through a window.

There's an entire circle of people gathered, all of them familiar-looking despite their dark robes and somber faces. Janet is in the center, sitting splay-legged in front of a carefully drawn circle that's a perfect copy of the one in the basement back in Gotham. Jack Drake's body lies in the center, looking remarkably well-preserved for a man some six months gone.

Janet's robe is hiked up above her swollen belly, legs spread, the blade of a very familiar knife aimed between them, and Tim feels _sick_.

"You _can't_! You can't do it again, there's no point to even trying—there's nothing to bring back, there's no one there!" But she can't hear him, none of them can—they've all been careful, extending their lifespans so they never age, never grow old. None have ever died. And there's no way he can get back to Gotham and Jason again in time to stop them from killing again.

He tries to get her to drop the knife, coming up beside her and forcing his hand into hers. But it's just like when he tried with Constantine—she's too slick, too slippery. His hand slides right off of hers and there's nothing, nothing he can do.

And the tug between his center and the corpse on the floor is growing ever stronger, trying to drag him down and in. With a jerk, Tim stumbles backwards, fleeing to the other end of the room in an effort to put as much space as possible between himself and the body that was once his father.

He's so distraught that his elbow goes through a table and, without really thinking, he glances over. There's a landline telephone on the table, a familiar-looking address book lying beside it. No doubt left after Janet summoned all her cronies over to help her with this gruesome ceremony. Tim's stomach roils again, and he's about to pull away when a thought stops him. Aren't there stories about people getting ghost calls from dead people? He _thinks_ he remembers the right number.

* * *

Jason's got one glove on and is searching for second when his phone starts in the pocket of jeans he just shucked off. He's ready to ignore it, but it keeps ringing without pause, long past the time that it should have stopped. Very cautiously, he leaves off searching for his glove and eases the phone out. The number isn't one he recognizes, though it does have a Metropolis area code. With a gulp, he hits the button to answer it.

"Hello?"

 _"J—on, you—ve to co— Me—polis,"_ a familiar, if static-heavy voice says.

"Tim?!" Clutching the phone to his ear, he dashes away from the lockers and into the cave-proper. "Where are you? Do you have an address? What's happening?"

"Really, Master Jason. This is hardly behavior befitting a—"

"Sorry, Alfie, can't talk, I've got _Tim_ on the phone!" Pausing briefly, he spots Bruce at the computer and waves. "Hey, boss—can you run a trace?"

_"—ot much—ime. Ri—l pull—e in. Hurry!"_

The static is so bad that he can barely understand Tim, but at least the connection seems strong beyond that. "Just hold the line open, B's going to run a trace, figure out where you are," Jason says, switching the phone to speaker and then dropping it in Bruce's waiting hand. "Do you know what part of the city you're in?"

_"—swanky. Rich—rtment. Acro—iver fro—S.T.A.R. La—brick bu—1940s, —enty—nd—oor."_

It's clear Tim's trying to be as helpful as possible, but communication is hindered by the poor connection—either the result of them being in a cave and that interfering with Jason's cell reception or, y'know. Tim being _dead_ and all. Plus, he sounds—anxious. Desperate. Like he's scared and worried and concerned they won't be fast enough, won't get there before something awful happens.

"Got a lock on the location. Good job, Tim," B says. He's dropped the growl he usually uses when communicating with civilians in the mask, is using the gentle tone he favors with scared victims and small children. Jason supposes that makes sense, since Tim counts as both. "Help will be there shortly."

 _"—ank you,"_ Tim says, and then the connection cuts out, the phone beeping to indicate a dropped call.

"Boss, how—" he starts to ask, but Bruce just holds up a hand, thumbing a switch on the keyboard.

 _"Y'lo,"_ a cheerfully familiar voice greets. _"What's up?"_

"I know you have a… less than stellar history with magic, but I have a Metropolis location I need you to check out. I have good reason to believe there's a ritual happening that needs shutting down ASAP."

 _"Right,"_ Superman says, suddenly alert and all business, his previous laid-back behavior completely absent. _"Give me the address."_

* * *

Tim isn't sure what he was expecting when Batman said that help would be coming, but it certainly wasn't _Superman_ bursting through the wall and zooming around the room to knock over the assembled cloaked individuals. Unfortunately, that just takes care of the people standing, not the most important one of all.

"Superman, you have to stop my mom!" he cries out, forgetting in his desperation both that the man can't hear him and that he's trying very hard not to think of her that way anymore. But Superman doesn't seem to realize that Janet isn't a victim. Even worse, he has his back turned on the rest of the coven, who are already getting up and making weird gestures with their hands. Tim doesn't know what prompts him—sheer terror, most probably—but he leaps forward in an attempt to pull Superman out of the way.

Instead, he leaps _into_ him.

Something sharp and stinging bounces off his back as Tim rises to his feet, momentarily shaken by his sudden and unexpected gain of height and bulk. But he doesn't let that slow him down for long, rounding immediately on Janet and knocking the dagger from her hand. "No more," Tim growls. "You don't get to do this anymore. Not to another child, yours or anyone else's. I was the last one and I'm going to _stay_ the last one. No more shortcuts, no more second chances, this is the end of the line for you."

"What the _hell_ are you on about?" she demands, harsh and imperious, every inch the untouchable queen of Tim's childhood despite her current state and awkward position. "It's _my_ body, I'll do with it as I please!"

Tim's hand shoots out, catching her wrist and barely noticing the small _crunch_ sound the delicate bones make under his currently inhuman grip. "Just because you make them, just because you birth them doesn't make them _yours_. Not anymore than _I_ was, than _my_ life was yours to do with what as you liked."

She blinks and for the first time real terror sparks on her face along with recognition. " _Timothy?_ " she squeaks.

"You didn't think I'd just leave and let you keep at it, did you? Especially after I found all the bodies under the floor. _All_ the bodies, Mo—Janet, my friends and all those babies. All my siblings that never got a chance to live their own lives, you and Jack were so keen on gaining just a little more power, a little more youth. The police were _really_ interested when they found _them_."

"You ungrateful little _brat_! Ruining things, messing with powers and spells you didn't understand—I saw the ingredients you left out, the spell you copied. I _know_ what you would have done if I hadn't gotten there first. I should never have listened to Jack, should have done you in along with the rest of the sniveling babes," Janet snaps. "I don't know how you disrupted the last ceremony, but I won't let you ruin this one. Won't let you condemn your own father to death simply because you're too self-centered to think of others."

The faint sound of sirens in the distance is growing ever louder on the edge of his hearing and, somehow, impossibly, he can hear Robin and Batman's voices along with them. Soon, other people will be here, people who know Superman and will be confused by his behavior. Tim doesn't have much time left. This is his last chance to set things right with this woman, his last tie to the land of the living, and he needs to end it.

"I was never the selfish one in that family, Janet. That was always you and Jack, too focused on your own lives to even pay attention to the one child you decided to keep. Sure, maybe you sped up something I was going to do anyway, but I never intended to do it for my own selfish reasons unlike _some_ people." He tightens his grip on her wrist just a little more, and now he can hear a faint creak as further stress is put on the ulna and the radius. Lifting his head, he glances about at the rest of the coven, and, very briefly, sees red.

The edges of their robes go up in flames, distracting them from their panicked attempts to fight or escape.

"Foolish boy! You couldn't have realized—had you completed the ritual, you never would have been capable of controlling the power! You were never meant as _just_ a child, Timothy. There was so much more you could have been capable of, if you'd just done as you'd been told."

"My name. Is. _Tim!_ " he roars and right then is when the door of the apartment bursts open, police streaming into the room and—

Tim's across the room, feeling cold and empty as Superman shakes himself and rises to his feet, lifting up Janet Drake along with him.

It's over.

* * *

When Gordon finally gives the go-ahead to bring Jason and Bruce up, Tim is lingering in the hall outside the apartment. Which is just as well, probably, because not even Gordon could swing them admittance to the actual crime scene.

Tim immediately perks up as soon as he sees them, zipping down the hall to stop a foot or two in front of Jason. "Hi, sorry about the phone call, I know it was a bad connection, I've never tried anything like that before. Thank you for getting help here so soon, I couldn't stop them, couldn't do anything, and she was about to—she would have—" He gulps, swallowing down his panic. "Thank you."

"Hey, it's okay," Jason says, ignoring the odd looks the officers on guard give him. Bruce and the Commish just roll their eyes and move to the side, well-used to Jason's eccentricities in regards to Tim after two months of this. "You did the best you could, considering the circumstances." It's almost automatic, trying to reach out to comfort Tim even though he knows his hand will just pass right on through.

This time, however, Tim dances out of reach, his eyes going wide and a little scared. "Don't! It's—" He visibly swallows, glancing back over his shoulder to where Superman is filling in the MPD on what happened.

Jason frowns, not liking this skittishness at all. "What's wrong? Did Supes—"

"You shouldn't let me touch you," Tim blurts out, then cringes slightly. "I… Remember how we talked about the spirit board? That I could wear Batman's hand like a glove to more the planchette?"

"Yeah, you said you thought you could possess people, maybe." Jason sucks in a breath, deep and sudden. "Tim, did you—?"

"I didn't mean to! I was just so scared she might try again, might succeed this time, and the coven, they were going to sling spells at Superman and he didn't even know, I couldn't warn him, and Janet still had a knife, and—"

"Woah, calm down, you're fine now. Everything turned out fine, the cops got here in time, you saved the day." Though Jason doesn't like the _look_ that passes between B and Big Blue. He wouldn't be surprised if Batman and Robin are going to do a little visiting while in town.

"I just wanted to pull him out of the way and protect him," Tim whispers, moving to sit down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. After a moment's hesitation, Jason joins him—though he does make certain to leave some space between them. "I didn't mean to go inside him. But—it was so _easy_. Not as easy as with Batman, but it was still really easy. And then I could do—anything. I could make Janet stop, and keep the coven from leaving! It was… too much. Too much power." He shudders, shaking his head. "I don't know how Superman can stand it, most of the time. It was _terrifying_. I think I might have killed her, if the police hadn't shown up when they did."

Thank goodness he didn't. Jason doesn't think either Bruce _or_ Clark would be able to deal with that. "We'll have to apologize later," he tells Tim. "I know you didn't mean to do it, and I bet it's hard to realize your own strength, being Superman."

"Do you think he's awfully mad at me?"

Considering that Jason's fairly certain Clark is listening to at least his half of this entire conversation, he'd be very surprised if he was. Upset, sure—but it would take an idiot not to realize that this is seriously freaking Tim out, even if they can't hear the ghost's half of the conversation. "I think he'll understand that you've been through a lot and have every reason to be upset about what your m—what Janet did."

"I guess, maybe." Tim pulls his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. "Janet, she said some stuff. Once she realized it was me in Superman."

"She knew…?"

Tim winces, then shrugs. "I might've accidentally called her Mom? I don't really remember and it's hard to break the habit of a lifetime. Anyway, she said—she said I was—" 

"Fuck her and whatever she said," Jason growls. "She's a baby-killer and a child-murderer and she _killed_ you. She doesn't get to say anything about you ever again." Hell, if he had his way, she would never have been allowed another chance to talk to Tim in the first place, but sometimes things just don't work out the way you want them to.

"This is actually important, though. She said—"

"She said whatever she thought would get you to stop. You were in Superman, she was terrified! She was blowing smoke, trying to distract you. I've seen it loads of times, typical diabolical villain behavior," Jason says, then immediately glances over his shoulder at the uniforms standing forty feet away. Here's hoping they didn't hear that. He doesn't need anyone wondering why Jason Wayne, son of noted billionaire Bruce Wayne, has experience talking with villains.

"You really think so?"

"I _know_ so. Now c'mon, let's get you downstairs and away from all this. She's captured, the cops have her—we don't ever need to think about her again."

"Alright." Tim gives him a weak, watery smile and slowly rises to his feet—literally rises, floating up until he can get his feet back under him again. "Thank you, Jason. For everything."

"Of course," he says, voice sounding strangely gruff to his own ears as he hops to his feet and very determinedly does _not_ look Tim in the eyes—because his own are watering from the dust in the carpet, that's all. "What else are partners for?"

* * *

They end up having to stick around a little longer, mostly because both the MPD and the Feds that show up after a bit want to interview Gordon's star witness on the case—i.e., Jason. It's more than a little awkward, made both worse and better by the fact that, as his parent, Bruce has to be present for the whole thing. But, since this is as Jason's parent instead of Robin's partner, it also means he's there as _Brucie_ , which is always a distressing thing to witness.

They manage to escape after almost an hour of questioning. A lot of that time Tim spends off to the side, waiting. Back in Gotham, he could wander about. Here, he finds he can't move very far away from Jason and Bruce. As it was, once he'd pulled himself out of Superman earlier, he'd found himself stuck, no longer able to move about. Or, at least—not able to move very far away from Jack Drake's corpse.

He wonders if Jason will be able to convince the authorities that the body needs to be incinerated into nothing, and then burned a bit more for good measure. Tim isn't certain, but he's been thinking about the weird pull he felt from the body earlier and it wouldn't surprise him in the least if it turns out that had Janet successfully revived it, Tim's soul would've been the one sucked in instead of the right one. Jack, after all, can't ever come back to the land of the living—not as a ghost, not as a resurrected being, not even reincarnated. At least, that's how the spell Tim cast is supposed to work.

There's a reason why you have to be a ghost to cast it, after all. Only someone absolutely certain of what they intend to do can carry out such a sentence—so certain that they're willing to die in order to cast it. Or maybe it's because only the dead are deemed impartial enough to be capable of carrying out that kind of judgement. Not that Tim thinks himself impartial in the least, but then again it _is_ just a theory.

Finally, Jason is released and, after saying a few words to Commissioner Gordon, he meanders over to Tim. "Ready to blow this creepy city?" As he so often does, he forgets himself and holds out a hand.

Tim starts to reach for it—and then he remembers himself. Remembers what he did earlier, in the apartment. In Superman. Instead, he jams both hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I still need to apologize."

"Eh, if Big Blue wants an apology, he knows where we live. Now c'mon—let's get you home."

"Yes," he says, his heart soaring and swelling to impossible heights and proportions. _Home_ , Robin— _Jason_ —said his home is Tim's as well. "Let's."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Feds have some questions. / Tying up loose ends.

Two FBI agents show up at the manor three days after Janet's capture. Alfred shows them into the lower drawing room and serves coffee while Bruce charms them and Jason lingers in his bedroom, trying not to panic.

"It'll be fine," Tim reassures him, smiling encouragingly. "We planned for this, we knew it was coming. Don't forget the list."

"Right," Jason says, wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs before picking up the piece of paper from his desk, then thundering down the steps. He's on his own for this. Or, at least, Bruce will be there because he's underage and Tim will be around to prompt him, but he has to remember to keep his attention focused on the agents and not reply to Tim the way he's so used to doing. The last thing they need is for the authorities to think Jason is totally coo-coo.

The agents have matching strained smiles when Jason walks into the room, but that's likely more because of the fact that Brucie is out in full-force and telling some ridiculous story about the French Riviera which is probably three-parts fiction to one-part fact. "Oh, but you don't need to hear about that, haha," Bruce says, somehow making his laugh sound both completely genuine and totally fake at the same time. It's an art from. "You're here for Jason. I have to tell you, we were completely surprised when he started talking about ghosts and murders and all that. But you learn to take these things in stride when you live with a miracle."

"That's right," says the agent on the left, a severe, military-looking man, "he came back from the dead last fall, didn't he?"

"Yes," Jason says as he stops in front of the agents, glaring down at them, "I did. And because of that, I can see and speak to ghosts now. What, don't believe me?"

"I think what my partner is trying to say is that while not unheard of, it's also not that common an occurrence with individuals who don't regularly dabble in the mystical arts themselves," the second agent says, leaning forward to hold out her hand. "Hello, Jason. I'm Agent Pemberly and this is Agent Devola. We were hoping to talk to you about what happened in Metropolis a few days ago."

Jason frowns but shakes her hand, then takes a seat in the armchair next to Bruce's. "You mean you want to talk to Tim but since you can't do that directly, you're going for the next best thing. Well, fine. You can talk, but if you've got any questions, we're not answering them until you do some things for us, first."

"Now look, kid, I don't know what TV's led you to believe, but generally witnesses aren't the ones making demands in these situations," Agent Devola says.

"I don't know about TV, but I know about exchanging things. Tit for tat and all that. We want three things," he explains, glancing down at the paper in his hands. "First, we want Jack Drake's body cremated as soon as possible. It was creepy enough when Janet was trying to bring it back to life the first time, Tim doesn't want to have to be worrying about that for the rest of his afterlife. Second, we want Janet Drake locked up in a high-security facility that'll take into account her special abilities—not your average prison where she can just off her cellmate and bring down a wall; we want someplace like Belle Reve. Finally, we want Bruce to get custody of the baby. He's a fully qualified foster parent, a great dad, and since Tim hasn't got any living relatives aside from Janet, he wants to make sure his little brother or sister ends up with as close to family as he can manage."

He's shaking by the time he finishes, mostly because of how he's all over nerves about demanding so many things from authority figures, but also because he hasn't spoken to Bruce about any of this. There's every chance he'll declare there's no place for a baby at the manor, and that would ruin everything, since the last demand is the one Tim's been most adamant about.

The agents glance at each other, clearly taken aback by the nature of his requests. Finally, Pemberly speaks. "Jack Drake's body is already scheduled for the crematorium as soon as the ME is finished determining cause of death. This is far from the Bureau's first rodeo—we're well-aware of the potential danger presented by a magically imbued corpse. Same goes for extra-ordinary prisoners." She pauses, biting her lip. "The baby…" Glancing to her partner, she trails off.

"I'm fully prepared to take responsibility for the child if the state has yet to make other arrangements," Bruce breaks in. "I do realize there may be health complications as a result of trauma sustained during the events earlier this week; however, I'm sure you're well-aware that I'm more than financially capable of seeing to any special requirements that may come up. Jason has formed a very close connection to Tim during their time together and I would like to give the poor boy as much peace of mind as possible."

"Janet Drake went into premature labor the day after she was taken into federal custody," Devola says. "The child did not survive being separated from his mother."

"What? No!" Tim cries out, shooting forward, for once careless in his navigation around the living as he passes straight through Bruce to glare at the agents. "I got there in time, I know I did! They hadn't started doing anything yet, they were still waiting for the show to start! The baby, it— _he_ —should have been fine!"

Bruce shudders, then glances in Jason's direction, frowning. "Is he here now, Jay-lad?"

"The ghost? He's here?" Pemberly asks, glancing all around.

"Of course he's here. This is more his business than it is anyone else's," Jason snaps. "And he says the baby should've been fine, that he stopped Janet and her cronies before they could use it for anything."

"Well, I don't know about that, kid," Devola says, "but there was something wrong with that baby."

"Stillborn?" Bruce asks, sounding soft and sad.

"Not… exactly. He was fine and wailing—right up until the umbilical cord was cut," Pemberly says, looking incredibly uncomfortable to be talking about this. "And then he just—went silent. It was like the life went out of him, once he lost his last remaining tie to the mother."

Tim abruptly goes still, his eyes huge. "Oh. Oh no," he whispers. "I didn't mean to—oh _no_." He glances back at Jason, a sick look on his face. "Sorry," he says. "I can't—I have to go." Then he's rushing past, through the west wall and deeper into the house.

"Wait!" Jason cries out, jumping to his feet totally forgetting that he's supposed to keep mum, act as normal as possible. None of that matters now, not with the look of utter despair on Tim's face. Whirling around, he lopes off through the door closest to where he wants to go, the agents calling after him. Whatever, they're Bruce's problem now.

He's pretty sure he knows where Tim is, less because of the direction he's headed and more because after two and a half months, he has a fairly good understanding when it comes to how he thinks. So he jogs through the halls, gradually moving higher until at last he's pushing up a trap door and clambering out onto the roof.

"Hey. You wanna talk about it?"

The little ball of barely there Tim huddled against the lee of a chimney shudders and curls tighter. "Not really." He shifts slightly and an eye peeks out. "You should have stayed down there. Helped the agents with their inquiries."

"Dunno why—there's nothing I can tell them that Bruce or Gordon don't already know." Carefully clambering across the space between the trapdoor and the chimney, he settles in beside Tim. "Sorry about your little brother."

With a sigh, Tim uncurls the rest of the way until it almost looks like he's just leaning against the bricks. "It's my fault he's dead."

"No it's not, don't be stupid."

But he just shakes his head, hugs his knees to his chest. "The night I died, when I messed up Janet's spell—I didn't want her to bring back Jack, so I took all the life energy in the spell and yanked it away, out of her control. I didn't realize there was anyone else's life tied into the spell besides mine. When I took all that power, I took the fetus's ability to survive on its own someday."

That's… incredibly creepy and weird and a lot for Jason to wrap his head around, but he is sure of one thing, if nothing else. "Okay, first of all? Not your fault. You acted in what was basically self-defense, any lives lost in that whole shebang are totally Janet's fault. Secondly, it was just a teeny-tiny little bundle of cells. From everything you've said about the whole thing, she'd probably already messed it up by trying to put too damned much into way too small of a container."

"But maybe not! I was already most of the way dead anyway, if I hadn't done anything, maybe he might've survived."

"Survived to be turned into a tool by Janet and Jack? Because it would've been both of them if you hadn't screwed her up, _and_ they would've gotten away with it and kept killing kids for who knows _how_ long," Jason snaps. "Anyway, it's been months since you last saw her, you don't know what she's done to it in the time between! Heck, it might've not even been the same kid. Pregnancy. Whatever."

Slowly, Tim loosens his grip on his legs and lets them slide down to lay out straight in front of him. "I guess. Maybe."

" _Definitely_ ," Jason says firmly, pushing himself to his knees. "C'mon, we've got a couple of feds waiting on us and you know Bruce is probably traumatizing them." Unthinking, he holds out his hand to Tim.

Tim must not be thinking either, because he reaches for it. For one brief, amazing moment, Jason thinks he feels the touch of fingers on his palm.

But then Tim's hand passes through and all that's left is a chill. "Right," Tim says, looking uncharacteristically flustered. "We better go save them."

* * *

Later, after the agents have left apparently satisfied with what little they could tell them, Jason is hard at work when a voice startles him out of his essay fugue.

"I think you might be my anchor."

"What? Sorry, I'm trying to get this done." Jason pushes away from his desk and the homework there so he can turn to look at Tim straight on. The ghost is seated on the edge of the bed, hands carefully resting on the comforter with just enough weight that they hardly pass through the surface at all. He's obviously been practicing.

Tim bites his lip. "I'm sorry. You're busy."

"Not too busy to listen to you. Tell me again?"

"Just. Usually there's something that's anchoring a spirit to the living world. I thought that for me it was—it was Janet, that I had to get justice for my death. But the feds have her and she's going to be locked away for a long time and I'm still here. So I thought maybe it was that I had to get justice for my friends and get _their_ parents put away. But then they all got tracked down and arrested—and I'm still here."

"Well, I mean. I guess it sucks that you haven't gotten to go on to the afterlife, but at least we stopped a lot of bad people from killing more kids?" Jason offers. "And, for what it's worth, I like having you around. You're a good friend."

Tim jerks, looking very surprised. "We're friends? But. I thought we were… partners?"

"We're that too! But we can be friends _and_ partners. Like me and B."

"But he's also your dad."

"Sure, but you can be friends with your parents. Er, I mean—obviously not with _your_ parents on account of how they're psycho baby killers, but with good parents."

"You and Batman fight sometimes, though?"

"Oh, sure. Friends can fight, so can kids and parents, or partners. That doesn't mean we don't care for each other. Didn't you ever fight with your parents?"

Tim quickly shakes his head. "I didn't see them very much or very often, so I tried to behave when I did. I guess maybe I thought they might like me better that way. Shows what I know."

Jason's heart aches in his chest and wishes more than anything that he could pull Tim into a hug. But while Tim may be able to flutter through the pages of books and send chills down the spines of people he doesn't like, they still haven't figured out how to do sustained physical contact. "Hey. You know it wasn't your fault, right? They were sociopaths, or narcissistic egoists or whatever the technical term is for crazy people who wouldn't realize what an amazing, smart, funny kid they had if you came up and bit them in the ass."

"Ew, why would I want to bite my parents' butts? That's just gross."

"It's a metaphor, idiot." Rolling his eyes, Jason turns back to his essay. "Now, are you gonna help me expound on how 'The Crucible' served as a critical take on the Red Scare in 1950s America or am I bowing out on patrol _again_ tonight?"

Half a minute later a chilly presence is leaning over his shoulder. "You know I was horrible at social studies when I was alive, right?"

"All the more reason to work harder on it now. Come on, you read the play with me—talk to me about witch-hunts."

Tim grumbles some more, but eventually—reluctantly—begins reciting what the teacher told them in class a couple weeks ago. They're an odd pair, sure. But Jason has a feeling that this is one partnership that's going to work out in the long run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey. So this is the start of a new series that will have (hopefully) at least one more longer fic and a bunch of shorter ones in between. I know it ends on a kind of bittersweet note for JayTim (Tim is dead! how can they ever be? woe!), but these two will eventually get their happy ending ~~unless I'm a complete flake and abandon it because let's be real life happens~~.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with my super-fun and light-hearted boy detective story! \o/

**Author's Note:**

> [I have a tumblr!](http://themandylion.tumblr.com/) Come visit if you want ridiculous AU headcanons, rants about the English language (and/or educational publishing), history fangirling, adorable baby bats, and veeeeery occasional fanart. Also, because I am an actual human being with opinions of my own, sometimes I post or reblog things that reflect those opinions. If you can't handle the idea of someone existing in the universe and possessing opinions which differ from your own, you probably should not click on that link.


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